My Girl Sarah
by Frea O'Scanlin
Summary: The year is 1949, the town, Chicago. P.I. Charles Carmichael is down on his luck—he hasn't had any new clients, his office is a mess, he's misplaced his secretary, and now there's a missing wag people want him to find. Chuck takes the case, leading to madcap adventures with crooked cops, crime lords and maybe a Soviet or two. But what does Chuck want? He wants his secretary back.
1. The Mountain and the Mole Hill

**mxpw's A/N the First**: It was a lot of fun writing this story with **Frea**. I haven't written anything in a long time, so this story means a lot to me for a lot of reasons. One, it gave me an opportunity to work with Frea again, a very rewarding and entertaining experience. Two, it pushed me to write, and not just write something, but to actually finish it too. That was important. I really wanted to finish this. Not just because I think it's a pretty good story, but it's something Frea and I have actually been working on, off and on, for a couple of years. It's the culmination of a lot of conversations and a lot of late nights. I hope that you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

**Frea's A/N the First**: Hello, all! Look! I'm back! And writing _Chuck_ fic again, which is a little improbable...or so you would think. There are two truths to this story: first—I'm not writing it alone. This story wouldn't have been possible without the awesome support of my fantastic cowriter, **mxpw** (yes, I said cowriter, not beta; if there's something awesome in this story, he wrote it, and I filled in the blanks). So even though it's posted under my name, please don't forget to give him the credit, too! And secondly—this story is finished. That's right. It might have been started two years ago and set to the side, but it's finished now. Everything is written, there won't be any waiting for months while Frea gets her act together. We've even got a posting schedule, but we're cruel, mean, horrible people, so we're not going to share it.

I also want to stop and take a moment to thank our lovely beta readers, **Steampunk Chuckster** (there was a lot of keyboard smashing from this, which I guess you could call beta reading, once you listen past the dying whale noises) and **quistie64**, who is nothing but a delight and was awesomely willing to look this story over extremely last minute. Thank you to you both, ladies, and to the people I've pestered over the past few weeks for details.

A couple of things to note: there's a lot of set-up to this story, and certain characters might not show for a bit, but I promise you, the payoff will be worth it. With that said, kick back to the 1940's playlist you can find in my profile, put on your best fedora, and let's go back to 1949...

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**The Mountain and the Mole Hill**

The minute I stepped out of the stairwell, I knew I wasn't alone. I liked to think it was my keen sense of danger, but really it was the fact that my office door was ajar, the doorknob dangling by a thread. With a sigh, I shut the stairwell door behind me and tiptoed down the creaking hallway. My office was on the fifth floor of the old McDonald Building downtown, but as a believer in not courting death, I took the stairs. The last time I used the elevator, it jumped almost a whole floor, which might not be a problem had we not been already going down. I had no idea how Bill handled it. He said that being an elevator man's a noble profession. I say that it should come with life insurance.

My office door was solid, with a nameplate across the front that said Carmichael Investigations. Nothing fancy, just how I like it. Sarah always said that I'd never make a name for myself with such low-key presentation. That was fine, I'd tell her. I didn't need to make a name for myself: I wanted to help people. She would roll her eyes, but sometimes, probably when she thought I wasn't paying attention, I'd catch a small smile on her face.

Now that I was close, I could see the lock had been jimmied, and rather haphazardly at that. I frowned, more at the shoddy workmanship than the hassle of getting my door fixed. Whoever had busted my door either didn't care that I'd know right away or they had no pride in their work. Which was worse? Indifference or incompetence? Both could lead to a dirt nap.

I pushed the door inward, my right hand on my M1911—I was cautious, not stupid. In my line of work, stupid gets you concrete shoes and a ticket to the bottom of the Lake.

It must have been my lucky day: nobody had started shooting, which I considered a positive sign. My office wasn't big but there was enough space for a small waiting room with three uncomfortable chairs and a beat-up rolltop desk. Not exactly the homiest of rooms for potential clients to wait or for Sarah to work, but she had never complained. Of course, since she had up and quit on me, the room now stood emptier than an echo. If whoever had broken in was still around, they were in my actual office. That door, too, was ajar.

Very few in Chicago would jimmy my lock and actually stay on the premises just to show they could. That smacked of the Bishop.

I took my hand off my gun. No need to lead with my worst dance steps, after all. Pushing my shoulders back, I opened the office door and stepped inside.

Two men waited in my office.

The man straining my already-beleaguered desk chair was the massive Mr. Colt. Mountainous was actually a better description for him. Under his perfectly tailored dark gray suit—I always felt a wave of sympathy for the poor tailor responsible for making clothes that would actually fit him—was a granite wall of muscle and sinew. The one time I had shaken his hand, I'd nearly had to see Ellie about a broken hand. If I remembered correctly, he carried two Colt New Service revolvers. Why he bothered with them when he could easily crush a man's skull with his bare hands was a mystery to me.

His companion was not nearly so substantial. Where Colt was walking muscle with a brain—at least I suspected he had a brain, I'd yet to see the proof—Mr. Delgado was a bird of prey, built for agility and speed over strength. He moved with slippery grace, the scars on his face giving him a rakish appearance, and I knew by reputation that he was every bit as dangerous as his partner.

"Ah, Mr. Carmichael, it's so good to see you," Mr. Colt said. His voice, a deep basso thrum, shook the walls.

"We let ourselves in. I hope you don't mind," Mr. Delgado added.

I took my hat and jacket off, placing each carefully on the rack. Three years ago, I would have tossed both and hoped for the best, but Sarah had broken me of that habit. Now, everything was all careful movements and even more careful presentation. Clients might have liked the frumpy look in the middle of a case, as it shows hard work and no time for frivolities. Nobody, however, likes hiring a bum-looking private detective, as it never inspires confidence.

Hat and coat successfully squared away, I turned. "You're in my chair."

"Is that any way to talk to prospective clients, Mr. Carmichael?"

"You're not clients and you never will be, gentlemen."

Mr. Colt rolled his shoulders and it was like two hills shaking in an earthquake. He stood up—I practically heard my chair groaning in relief—and walked around my desk, taking up position behind Delgado, who was in the lone chair in front of my desk. I frowned. That was Sarah's chair.

I ran a hand down my tie, straightening it, and sat down. Since Sarah wasn't there, I swung my feet up and around, resting them on the corner of my desk. It was my "thinking pose." It looked relaxed, but that was just plain deception. It kept my hand close to my gun.

"You haven't even heard our proposal, Carmichael," Delgado said.

"It's always the same thing with you two," I said. "I'm not interested."

"Pity. Say, I'm feeling a bit of a cold coming on," Colt said, and fingered the bowler hat in his hands. "The sniffles. What time is it?"

Delgado reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a scuffed gold watch. He made a contemplative noise in the back of his throat. His eyes never wavered from my face as he said, "Nearly three."

"Don't mind me if you have somewhere else to be..." I trailed off.

Colt ignored me to look at his partner. "Oh, good, still early enough to see a doctor. Say, isn't that when your lady friend starts her shift at Our Lady of the Lilies? That's not too far. Maybe I'll pay her a visit, see what she can do for me."

It took all my self-control not to immediately reach for my gun. Instead, I plastered a charming smile on my face. "You should really get that sniffle taken care of. If you don't have your health, you don't have anything."

Delgado smirked and put his watch away.

"If you want, I'll even put in a good word for you," I said. "See if she'll help you on the cheap."

Neither man spoke, they simply stared at me. I flashed them an affable smile: I wasn't going to be the one to blink first.

Finally, Delgado spoke. "Mr. Karpazzo has a proposition for you."

I leaned farther back in my chair and stared up at the ceiling. "And what does the Bishop have for me today?"

"Mr. Karpazzo," Delgado said with emphasis on the name, "would like you to find something for him."

"And what is this 'something' he wants me to find?"

"A man by the name of Bryce Larkin."

"You know I don't do that kind of work."

Delgado turned toward Colt, who nodded. Delgado reached into his suit and pulled out a bulging envelope, which he tossed onto my desk. It bounced once before settling in front of me. I picked it up without looking away from the ceiling and thumbed it open. The feeling of money against my thumb was enough to make me jump and look down. Indeed, there was more money inside than I'd ever seen in my life.

"Huh," I said. It was more than my normal fee.

"Five thousand now, five thousand when you find Larkin."

"What?" I looked from the money to the men. "Ten thousand dollars? Let me guess. He's the guy that really took Lucky Lindy's baby, isn't he?"

Delgado smoothed his lapels. "Mr. Karpazzo is very insistent that Mr. Larkin be located as soon as possible."

"There is a five thousand dollar bonus for finding him within the next three days," Colt said.

Fifteen thousand dollars. For a single case? With that much money, I'd be set for the year. I could find a new secretary, spruce up the office a bit—Sarah always complained the place was so drab—maybe even go on a vacation. But I couldn't take it. It didn't matter how much they offered; I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I took the money from a man like Vincent Karpazzo. I put the envelope back on the desk and pushed it toward Delgado.

Delgado frowned at my refusal.

"Sorry, gentlemen. I don't do that kind of work and I don't work for men like your boss."

"Mr. Carmichael, be—"

"I've told you boys this a hundred times, I don't know why you always seem so surprised when I say no." I leaned forward. "There are other dicks in the city. Tell Karpazzo to go to one of them."

"He is," Colt said.

That was news. If the Bishop was spreading that much dough around, something big was going down. I'd been tapped into the Chicago underground for almost four years and I'd never heard of anybody throwing their weight around like this. For a second, I was tempted to take the case, just to figure out what the hell was going on. Casey would probably appreciate an inside track on a lead like this. Might even pay me for it too.

And wait, what was I thinking? If I took the case, Karpazzo would have his hooks in me good and tight. I'd go down swinging before I became another one of his goons, and he knew it. I'd said so to his face and I'd spent the next week sporting a fat lip to prove it. Perhaps it was even why he kept trying to entice me to his side. Some might claim the man is ornery, but I had a feeling he just didn't like to lose.

But Charles Carmichael also liked to know what was going on in his city, so I said, "He offering everybody this much?"

"As I said, Mr. Karpazzo is very determined that Mr. Larkin be found as soon as possible."

"Why?"

"That's not important."

"It is to me."

"Take the case, Mr. Carmichael, it looks like you need it." Delgado looked at the stacks of papers that had once been my desk.

"We heard you've been in a bit of a bind lately," Colt said.

"Yeah, this place is starting to look like a bit of a flop house."

Hurt rose at the insult. I thought my office had character, even if Sarah's word for it had been "disaster." I plopped my feet on my desk again. They'd made their offer, I'd turned them down, and now it was time for this farce to end. "Gentleman, I hate to be rude, but unless you have the names of the winning horses for tomorrow, I'd like you to leave. I have work to do."

"Noticed your office was missing something when we let ourselves in," Delgado said.

I froze. Now I was no genius, but even I knew where Delgado was going with this.

"What was her name?" Colt asked.

I decided to play dumb. I was usually pretty good at it, so it wasn't that hard. "Who?"

"That sweet dame of yours. Waters? Walters?" Colt said. He unbuttoned his coat and it fell open, revealing the two revolvers on either side of his chest.

"Walker," Delgado said. "Her name is Walker."

"Right. Real shame about her, Carmichael."

"I really don't see what this has to do with anything," I said.

"We heard you've been trying to lure her back," Delgado said. "Also heard it hasn't been going too well. Maybe we should pay her a visit, on your behalf, and see how she's handling all this free time."

I put my hands on my desk, and started to rise. "I think it's time you boys leave now."

Delgado stood up, picked up the envelope, and nodded once. "You know how to contact us if you change your mind. And Mr. Carmichael? I strongly urge you to change your mind."

Colt placed his bowler on his head and buttoned his coat, show of intimidation over. Both he and Delgado moved to stand in front of my door.

However, just because they declared the meeting over, that didn't mean they got the last word. I stood up, unsnapping my holster as I did, and waited for both men to turn my way. "Oh, before you go, I want you to know something, and tell your boss the same. I'm a pretty easygoing guy, but if you go anywhere near Dr. Bartowski or Miss Walker, I will take this gun here." I stopped and pulled the M1911 from its holster. I didn't point it at them, but goons or not, I'm pretty sure they got the message. "I will take this gun, I will shoot my initials into your chests, and I will leave you some place where even the pigeons won't go near you." I cocked the pistol. "Do we understand each other?"

Colt outright leered as he cracked his mammoth knuckles together. Delgado just smirked. "Understood, Mr. Carmichael."

They left and I sagged back into my chair like a deflated balloon. Even though I'd done this dance with the Bishop's thugs what felt like a hundred times before, it never got easier. Just another two-step straight into disaster, and this time it looked like they might get personal. I'd have to go down by the hospital and warn Ellie, maybe talk to security when she wasn't looking. Finding a way to get word to Sarah would be more difficult, as the woman was bound and determined to vanish off the face of the Windy City.

First though, I needed to find the number for the locksmith. Just another glamorous day in the life of Charles Carmichael, PI.

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**Frea's A/N the Second**: Well, that's it, story's over. Everybody can go home.

Okay, maybe you should come back Wednesday instead. Need incentive? Here's a little sneak at what's coming up...

_Her chest rose as she brought in a big breath. She seemed to steel herself, like she was about to do something unpleasant but necessary. "I need you to find a man for me," she said. She reached into her purse and pulled out a picture, which she handed to me._

_He was ridiculously handsome, the kind of man who'd fit right at home on the silver screen, with stylish dark hair and light eyes. "Nice looking fellow. Who is he?"_

_"My fiancé."_

_I looked from the picture to the woman. Made sense. "All right, what makes you think he's missing?"_

_"I haven't heard from him in more than a week. I'm worried." _

_Poor schmuck. Had to be dead. Not much else could keep a man, even one who looked like that, from coming back to the Southern belle currently sultrying up my wreck of an office. A Southern belle, regrettably, that I myself would have to turn down. "I'm sorry, sweetheart," I said. "I don't take missing persons cases. But if he's been gone a week like you say, you should go to the police."_


	2. Southern Comfort

**Frea's A/N the First:** Thanks to everybody that reviewed and to our awesome beta readers. Guys, I'm excited to be showing you this chapter. It's one of the favorite things I've ever worked on as a writer. **mxpw** just really knocked it out of the park, and made co-writing this chapter a blast.

**mxpw's A/N the First:** Oh, stop it, you. But I won't deny that this chapter has a favorite character or two in it. And it's exciting to get to show it to you to everybody who has reviewed. I really appreciate you sharing your thoughts! However, if you wish to discuss _Double Agent_, please refrain from doing that in your reviews. Feel free to message me privately!

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**Southern Comfort**

The problem with using a locksmith who was occasionally willing to look the other way or view the hard black lines of the law in shades of gray, was that sometimes you had to deal with that locksmith's whims. I could have called somebody else in the book and had them out to fix my office door since Monty was apparently on a three-day fishing trip with his brother-in-law, but there's something to be said for loyalty. And the guy had gotten me out of a few not-so-pretty jams before. I owed him my business for life, and fifty bucks besides. I was kind of hoping he didn't remember that part.

But since he had gone out of town, I didn't have much of a choice, which was why I was crouched in front of my door, stripped down to my shirtsleeves, when I heard the high heels.

There was no mistaking those heels, not the click or the rhythm. Relief nearly made me dizzy.

"Knew you'd come back, doll," I said without looking up. Some societies called that playing it cool. "Hand me that wrench?"

"I—I'm sorry?"

The voice was Southern, all molasses and sugar-sweet because of it. It was a pleasant voice, don't get me wrong, but it wasn't the voice of my estranged secretary and right-hand woman.

I straightened very slowly and turned.

I'm a tall man. When I say I spend most of my day looking down on people, I'm not talking about the figurative sense. One glance at this woman told me I wouldn't have to in this case because she was tall—not as tall as me, but with her heels it was good enough. She was on the willowy side, all sleek, sinful lines and fluid grace. Her face was angular and sharp, dotted with freckles that gave her a kind of innocence that belied the alluring look in her piercing blue eyes. Soft auburn curls danced along her shoulders and glowed faintly in the diffuse light of the hallway.

Normally I'm not one to care about women's fashion—or men's fashion for that matter—but a person's clothes tell you a lot about them, or more specifically their ability to pay for things like a private detective. She wore a full-skirted dark blue dress that reached about mid-calf and showed off her impressively thin waist. It looked expensive and high quality, which could only mean good things for me.

Okay, I noticed the legs. What? I'm still a man and they seemed to go on forever. I only stared for two, okay, three seconds. Thank God Ellie wasn't around; she'd probably slap me for being so uncouth.

I rubbed my hands on my pants and offered her my most friendly smile. "Help you, Miss?"

"Are you Mr. Carmichael?" Southern honey dripped from her words.

"Says so on the door." I moved so that I stood between her and the jimmied lock. "Sorry about the, ah, inconvenience. Had a couple of over-eager clients that didn't want to wait. What can I do for you?"

She smiled then, showing gleaming white teeth. It was a pretty smile, a very pretty smile, and I told myself this was a potential client, not a potential companion for a night on the town.

"I need your help."

"Then you've come to the right place." I pushed my office door in. As she passed, I was struck by the sway of her hips. Something about the way the woman moved seemed incongruent with her sweet and pleasant attitude. It was more like the stride of a panther than the mince of a lamb she appeared to be. I narrowed my eyes and closed the door behind me. It didn't shut all the way, of course, but that didn't matter. I could worry about it after the woman left.

I let her follow me into my office, only to realize a second too late that maybe that wasn't the best idea in the world. "Uh, apologies for the mess. My secretary is...on vacation." I laughed nervously as I pulled the lone chair in my office out for her. She sat and crossed one impossibly long leg over the other, resting her clasped hands on her knee and straightening up with the kind of posture that would have made my old instructors at Basic proud.

"So, what can I help you with, Miss..." I let my voice trail off as I moved around my messy desk.

"Miller," she said. "My name is Carina Miller."

I offered her my hand. Her handshake spoke of gentility and breeding. "Nice to meet you, Miss Miller. So, how can I help you?"

Her chest rose as she brought in a big breath. She seemed to steel herself, like she was about to do something unpleasant but necessary. "I need you to find a man for me," she said. She reached into her purse and pulled out a picture, which she handed to me.

He was ridiculously handsome, the kind of man who'd fit right at home on the silver screen, with stylish dark hair and light eyes. "Nice looking fellow. Who is he?"

"My fiancé."

I looked from the picture to the woman. Made sense. "All right, what makes you think he's missing?"

"I haven't heard from him in more than a week. I'm worried."

Poor schmuck. Had to be dead. Not much else could keep a man, even one who looked like that, from coming back to the Southern belle currently sultrying up my wreck of an office. A Southern belle, regrettably, that I myself would have to turn down. "I'm sorry, sweetheart," I said. "I don't take missing persons cases. But if he's been gone a week like you say, you should go to the police."

"I have." Tears shimmered, but didn't fall from those quicksilver eyes. "They said I shouldn't worry my 'pretty little head' about it."

Unfortunately, that sounded like the bulls we all loved to hate. "I'm sorry. I've got a friend down at the 42nd, I could send you his way, and he'd be willing to help you out."

"Mr. Carmichael." I liked the way she said that. Mist-ah Cah-michael, just melting on the tongue like spun sugar. She gave me a look that could twist the hearts of greater men than myself around her little finger. "I came to you because I heard you were the best. The police, they say that Bryce is just another wanderer, that it's not unusual that men can get up and leave everything they know behind. They said it was the War that does it to these, these rogues, but I know Bryce better. He's not like them, Mr. Carmichael."

Bryce.

Casually, I leaned forward to grab the foul ball Sarah had caught when I'd treated us to a Cubbies game during a slump in business. I tossed it casually from hand to hand. "Your fiancé got a last name?" I asked, keeping my voice the same as it had been the entire conversation.

"It's Larkin. Bryce Larkin."

Southern honey didn't sound so sweet laced with deception. I tossed the ball to my left hand so that my right was free to scrawl Bryce's name onto a sheet of paper, even as my mind began to trace the possibilities. There was no way this could be a coincidence. Not three people coming to the office in the same afternoon and asking after the same fellow. Colt and Delgado, they were easy enough to understand. They were hatchetmen for the Bishop. Miss Southern Comfort sitting across the desk from me was where I got tripped up. Was she a plant by the Bishop? If so, good old Vincent Karpazzo had certainly moved fast.

And if she wasn't a plant and this Bryce Larkin was just a cat who'd gotten mixed up in the wrong business? Should I try to find him for her? Should I tell her to skip town? Vincent Karpazzo wasn't shelling out fifty c-notes up front to find an innocent man, after all. Maybe Miss Carina was better off without him.

Maybe I should take the case.

Maybe the Cubs would win the pennant this year.

Not for the first time, I wished Sarah was here. My office wouldn't be a mess, I wouldn't be bleeding clients, and I would have somebody to talk to about the Belle of the Ball sitting across from my messy desk. Sarah may not have liked a lot of people, but she was a good judge of character.

"Miss Miller," I said, dropping my pencil into the general mess, "can I ask you a personal question?"

She blinked a few times, coquettishly: the perfect way to disarm a man at fifty paces and make him beg to do her bidding. "Are you certain that's appropriate, Mr. Carmichael? We hardly know each other."

"Your fiancé. Was he into anything...shady?"

Her mouth formed an 'oh' of shock and scandal. "What do you mean to imply, sir?"

"I'm not implying anything. It's just that, well, people don't usually disappear without some...provocation." Something Bryce had done had the Bishop up in arms. Whether or not Carina Miller herself was working for the man, it was worrisome enough that maybe I should do some checking, even if I didn't take the case. Just to be sure.

Miss Carina Miller didn't seem to care for my insinuations. The Southern Belle, in addition to playing the seductress and the soft-spoken charmer, also appeared to have a temper. Her color rose to high indignation, and she pinned me with a glare that was, in addition to being one of the most lethal things a person could possess, quite impressive in its ferocity.

"My fiancé is a good man," she said, that accent adding a rich flavor to her ire, "and I resent your implication that he might be involved in any of this so-called shady business of yours. You take that back, Mr. Carmichael."

If this was an act, it was a mighty good one. I played along. "All right, all right. I apologize, Miss Miller, for being out of line."

She took a deep breath and seemed to calm herself. "So you'll help me out, Mr. Carmichael? You'll find my fiancé?"

"I didn't say that."

"Well, as you may or may not know, I come from the Charleston Millers, and we're a big name in cotton—certainly you've heard of cotton, even this far north?" Her voice took on the smallest hint of disdain for us Yankees with the misfortune of being born above the Mason-Dixon line. I just tossed the baseball to my other hand and nodded. Oh, yes. I'd heard of cotton. "And my family has quite a bit of money. I'd be willing to pay you." Her smile took on just the tiniest edge of seduction. "Handsomely."

A guy's gotta eat. "How much?"

She named a sum. It put good old Vinnie and his boys to shame by a great deal. Needless to say, I dropped the baseball onto a stack of papers.

"Wow, Miss Miller," I said after a minute of listening to my brain happily and creatively swear up a storm. "It must be love."

"Oh, trust me, Mr. Carmichael. It is." Her lips twisted upward. That darkly-knowing, feline look might have seemed out of place on such a Dixie Miss, but this smile was one that every woman had in her arsenal: the man in her sights was cornered.

The problem was, I didn't know if it was this Bryce Larkin that was cornered, or if it was me.

"Even so, Miss, I'm afraid I can't help you. I'd be willing to point you toward somebody that would."

"Are you sure, Mr. Carmichael? She—they said you were the best in town."

"Whoever your informant is, they're right, but they must have neglected to mention something." I gave her a regretful look even while my brain whirled on me and tried to figure out what was really going on. "I don't take missing persons cases. Too many times, they just end in tragedy."

"I'm sorry you feel that way." Carina Miller rose to her feet. As a proper gentleman, so did I. "If you happen to change your mind..."

"My apologies, Miss Miller, but I won't."

"Even so, you can find me at the Sheridan."

I walked her to the door. The click of her three-inch heels against the floor once again sounded familiar, and something about her stride...

At the door, she offered me her hand. "It's been...interesting, Mr. Carmichael."

"I'm sorry that I can't help you, Miss Miller. Good luck finding your fiancé."

"Thanks. I'll need it." With one final, sad smile, she slipped into the hallway and out of my life, leaving nothing but a waft of perfume on the air. I stood at the doorway for a minute longer, feeling oddly as though I'd brushed up against the edges of a very potent hurricane.

I moved back to my desk and resumed tossing the baseball from hand to hand. There was something rotten in the Windy City, and that something likely bore the name of Bryce Larkin. Since Miss Carina hadn't asked for his picture back, I picked it up and studied it. Good lookin' fellow, and there was something about his face that tugged at the corners of my mind. He almost seemed familiar to me, but I was sure I'd never seen him before. I pushed the thought away and focused on the conundrum this Larkin created. So what was this Bryce character into that both the Bishop and the Belle wanted him back so badly?

Maybe it was love. Maybe I'd grown cynical. They'd make a handsome couple, Mr. Bryce and Miss Carina, and after less than ten minutes in the woman's presence, I could understand the attraction. I felt a smile twist the corner of my mouth up. I wouldn't mind stepping out with a dame like that.

Too bad I was already in love—with a woman whose face I had never even seen. It complicated things a bit.

I gave one final thought to what might have been—if only Miss Miller wasn't possibly a pawn of the Bishop, if only she wasn't engaged, if only—and rose to my feet. Turning down that much money had hurt. Turning it down twice had nearly killed him. But if there was something going on in my town, I needed to know about it.

So I rose to my feet and pulled on my jacket and hat. It was time to hit the usual sources. I took enough time to scribble off a note to any would-be trespassers, letting them know that there wasn't much of value inside, but they were welcome to half of the ham-on-rye sandwich in the middle drawer, and left that on my doorknob as a courtesy, before I hit the mean streets of Chicago looking for answers.

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**Frea's A/N the Second: **Dun dun dunnnnnnnnnn...and because we know how much you're already loving this story, we're going to be super nice and update THREE times this week. So tune in Friday, and always, here's a little taste of what's to come:

_"I've had an interesting day. Buy me a drink?"_

_"Not even if you were pretty and female, two things of which you are neither. What are you doing here?"_

_"You don't want to hear about my interesting day?"_

_Casey glanced over my shoulder at something happening behind me in the bullpen. I started to get the feeling that he was serious. "Carmichael, I have no time to help you hunt down some two-timing scumbag of a husband."_

_"It's a fiancé in this case, and it seems like it's a little more than that." I leaned forward. "Looking for a guy. Maybe you've seen him, five eleven, brown hair, blue eyes, too handsome for his own good?" _

_He had. I could tell by the way his eyes darted around the room. After a second, I saw him relax, but he'd already given away far too much. He studied my face for a beat, nodded slowly. "Guess I have time to hear about your day after all. But don't forget it's your turn to buy."_

On an administrative note, I'll be out of the country for a couple of weeks backpacking with friends, so **mxpw **will be posting this story from my account (so if I start to post smut before September 17th, do me a favor and kick him). Please, please, please keep your reviews confined to _My Girl Sarah _related stuff. We're flattered that you want more _Curtain Call _and _Double Agent_, but it's not fair to this story if that's what your review is about. We'd be much obliged for your kind consideration.


	3. Bulls and Monkeys

**Frea's A/N the First: **Thank you for all of the lovely reviews for Chapter 2! I'm so glad you guys are liking the story, and isn't Carina great? To think, once upon a time, she made me nervous to write her. She's got a fun storyline in this little tale of ours. I'm in Prague kicking back (hopefully), but I want to thank our wonderful beta readers (**mxpw** edit: that punk who likes steam and the other one that lives in the cave of angst) for their encouragement and support, and my awesome cowriter for the same and for being awesome and being my cowriter.

**mxpw's A/N the First:** Likewise, my awesome cowriter. I'm sure now you guys can see why we're cowriting this: our mutual admiration society. ;-) But seriously, though, thank you to everyone who has been reading! We of course appreciate all the reviews and welcome you guys to post theories, ask questions, and enjoy the story. I know many of you are probably wondering where Sarah is and all I can say is, please be patient. There is a method to our madness and she's not involved in the story yet for a reason. As long as you keep reading, you'll discover why. Now onto the chapter!

* * *

**Bulls and Monkeys**

It's not far from my office to the headquarters for the 42nd precinct, which is probably why Sergeant John Casey and I even met in the first place. As a rule, coppers don't see eye to eye with PIs, but Casey's a good sort. Mean as two rattlesnakes tied together, sure, but a good man to have at your back in a fight. Which was how we met, actually, back before they switched Casey over to the daytime beat, that is (most cops don't want the night time beat in my neighborhood, but they'd had to beg Casey to come off of it). It was in my early days, just after the War, and Casey had saved me from a few Italians that hadn't liked the look of my face. I wouldn't call what we have now a friendship, but I've helped him out, and he's returned the favor. Begrudgingly.

The 42nd was its usual hub of activity when I walked in. They get their fair share of crooks, low-life criminals, and other scum there, sometimes even without my expert assistance. The desk sergeant recognized me and waved me back without even having to go through our normal comedy routine of where's-your-ID-don't-you-know-me today.

I was a little relieved. This Bryce thing was big, and I needed to move fast. Still, that didn't mean I couldn't stop and notice things. Like the fact that the 42nd, while normally busy, seemed to be hopping. I passed a hood sporting bracelets and a black eye. He glared at me out of his good eye. I waved back and went on my way, threading through the bulls and the cons, all of whom seemed to be moving much faster today.

Casey's desk is in the back, squeezed into a corner where he can watch all the proceedings in the bullpen. He says he likes it. I say it invites claustrophobia. The instant he spotted me, he rose to his feet.

"I don't have time, Carmichael."

"Gee, not even for an old friend?" I took off my hat, and plopped down in his visitor's chair. He hates that he has one of those.

He hates it more when I put my feet up on the corner of his desk. I did that now.

"What is it, Carmichael?" Casey's really good at asking questions between his teeth. "And get your feet off of my desk."

Since I did need information, I obliged him. "I've had an interesting day. Buy me a drink?"

"Not even if you were pretty and female, two things of which you are neither. What are you doing here?"

"You don't want to hear about my interesting day?"

Casey glanced over my shoulder at something happening behind me in the bullpen. I started to get the feeling that he was serious. "Carmichael, I have no time to help you hunt down some two-timing scumbag of a husband."

"It's a fiancé in this case, and it seems like it's a little more than that." I leaned forward. "Looking for a guy. Maybe you've seen him, five eleven, brown hair, blue eyes, too handsome for his own good?"

He had. I could tell by the way his eyes darted around the room. After a second, I saw him relax, but he'd already given away far too much. He studied my face for a beat, nodded slowly. "Guess I have time to hear about your day after all. But don't forget it's your turn to buy."

We went to the Shamrock. It's not my kind of place. I like my seedy drinking establishments with a little more character, but Casey's usual haunt—O'Riley's—was out of the question with all of those cop ears running around, and my preferred spot made Casey a tad too homicidal for my tastes. So the Shamrock it was. I stuck with a beer, Casey had a Guinness. That alone told me volumes. Casey's more of a hard liquor guy unless it's a case that requires serious police work.

The instant the bartender left us alone, he turned to me. "Where'd you hear about Larkin?"

I shrugged. "Around. Why were you in such a hurry to get me out of there, Case?"

I could see him debating that one, rolling it over in his mind. With some people, I would have kept talking, coercing them to open up and spill all to the nice private detective. With Casey, I knew it would just get him to clam up. I waited him out.

"There's a guy here," he said at length, "strolled up into town today. G-man. Mean sunovabitch, too." Since it was only the Shamrock, Casey turned and spat on the floor. The bar's sole other occupant ignored him. "Got half my boys shakin' in their boots."

Casey's men were known around the police force as being some of the meanest cusses this side of the Mississippi. The news was a little worrisome. "Yeah? What's so scary about him?"

"It's not that he's scary, it's that he's cold. Got a face like a block of wood, you know what I'm sayin'? Bastard'll torture you half to death, won't even crack a smile." Casey took a long drink of Guinness and wiped his mouth with his hand. "Says he's in town lookin' for a guy just like the one you described, goes by the name o' Larkin. Won't say what he's done, but the Feds, they want him bad."

I let Casey have a moment while I sipped my beer, trying to put the pieces together. So Karpazzo, Miss Carina Miller, and the Feds had a target painted on Bryce Larkin's forehead, and they were using any available resource to find him. What was so special about this wag, anyway?

Casey had downed half the Guinness. "You want my advice, Carmichael? Take that secretary of yours, and that doctor friend, and get out of town until this all blows over. This Fed hears you're connected, he'll make life hard for you."

If I knew where the damned secretary _was_, I might be tempted to listen. Not much scared John Casey. He had a jaw that had been chiseled from granite, and he led with it, comfortably. The fact that he was spooked by this Larkin business made me reconsider putting my not-too-small nose anywhere near all of this.

But maybe I could give the information tree a few more shakes before I had to bow out. "I can handle myself, Casey," I said.

Casey snorted. "Yeah, right. You say that and then you take one drink o' the hard stuff and it's all, 'I've got a guardian angel and she saved my life.' Give me a break, Carmichael."

I frowned down at my beer. One night of drinking with Casey and his boys and I'd probably never live any of it down. I should've known better, especially when I saw how they could treat a fine Jameson's like water. Never drink with the Irish.

So I changed the subject. "A woman came to my office today. Says she's looking for her fiancé. Wouldn't be a big deal, except this is an hour after two of the Bishop's goons came to see me, looking for the same thing."

"Yeah? Which ones?" Casey'd had a few run-ins with Karpazzo. It's nice to have mutual enemies.

"Colt and Delgado. The Bishop's got every private dick on the move, and he's probably got most of 'em in his pocket, what with offering five grand."

Casey's glass stopped halfway to his mouth. "Five _grand_?!"

"Up front," I said with relish, trying not to think about the ulcer turning down that money had given me. "Five more when you find Larkin. And five grand if you find him within three days."

Casey whistled low and let out an appreciative oath. "We'll have every private dick hounding our office by nightfall," he predicted, somewhat gloomily, and slanted me a look out of the corner of his eye. I knew that look well. Casey doesn't trust easily. "Does that mean you're workin' for the Bishop, Carmichael?"

I snorted. "Me? Does it look like I could use ten grand? Hell, Casey, I'm richer than Midas. Ten grand's a pittance." Since it was Casey, and the man had saved my life before, I dropped the act. "You know I'd never take that man's money. I just want to know what's going on."

He growled. "What's going on is you need to mind your own business, as this Larkin is bad news. Go to ground. Grab those miscreant ragtag pals of yours if you must, but get your near and dear out of sight, and stay there until this blows over."

It would probably be the smart thing to do. If the mere mention of Bryce Larkin's name was inviting this much trouble, I didn't want to meet the guy in a dark alley some night. But I shrugged and took a long swallow of beer. Wasn't much left but the foam. "You know I'm not going to do that, Case."

He paused. "Hell," he sighed. "I know."

"Will you have my back if it goes south?" It was a stupid question. He knew it, I knew it. I still had to ask, though.

"You know I will." He finished off his Guinness. "Carmichael? Don't let it go south. Or I _will _break your fool neck. If the Feds or the Bishop don't beat me to it."

And with those kind words, he left me alone at the bar. I waited with the dregs of my drink until he was a block away and couldn't be traced back to me, then I paid the nice bartender a little extra so that he would forget anything we talked about, and I left to hit up my next stop for the day.

* * *

Sure, Casey had said drop it, but when had I ever listened to him? So I spent the afternoon hitting up my favorite haunts: Jimmy the Ratcatcher, down by McKinley, my favorites from Montgomery's Billiard Hall off East 35th, Forrest's Tonic and Bath, and of course, Lou's Bistro up near Vernon Park. By the end, I had blisters and nothing else. All busts. Nobody had heard anything, everybody wanted nothing to do with anything, or they were just too afraid of being named a fink. Even Jimmy, who'd sell his own mother for a meatball sub and tickets to the Cubbies, had nothing more than the usual tall tales of a few delusional Capones in training.

By the time I left Lou's, I was tired, hungry, frustrated, and working on my own dime. I should drop it, I knew. I should go rustle up some new clients so that I'd actually have money to pay a new secretary if I could ever find one. That would have been the smart thing. Instead, I moseyed down to my favorite watering hole, the Broken Monkey.

Fernando was already at his post when I arrived. The freckled fellow was shaped like a barrel—soft, wide middle, stubby limbs, and a bull neck—but his size was misleading. I'd seen him break the arm of one of Fitzgerald's hatchetman like a toothpick. One didn't become the night doorman at the Broken Monkey with a weak constitution.

I tipped my hat to him as I walked past the milling crowd waiting to be let inside. Fernando stepped out of my way. "How's tricks, Carmichael?" he asked.

"Same old, same old," I said, and that summed up every conversation we'd ever had. When he lifted the velvet rope to let me pass, I ignored the angry looks from the crowd behind me (Charles Carmichael waits for no one, no matter how much Ellie would like to think differently) and stepped inside.

The Broken Monkey was really like another world. Or Borneo. The decor, palm trees and bamboo furniture and beige, beige _everywhere_, could overwhelm a first-timer, but for me, the place was old hat. I smiled at one of the girls selling cigarettes and other sundry items, just because I could. The BM was just that kind of place. Sarah didn't much care for it and Ellie thought my fondness for it bordered on the juvenile, but for me, this place had always held a certain kind of charm that no other place could.

Admittedly, part of that charm was its dubious legality. Normally, I'm not one to turn a blind eye to such things, but well, as long as I didn't actually _see_ anything going down, I couldn't very well tell Casey about it, could I? Because of that, I like to think of the Broken Monkey as a kind of reformed speakeasy. Not quite a dive and not quite the Blue Oyster Club, it occupied a comfortable middle ground that allowed many of the Monkey's more discerning clientele to avoid feeling skittish. It was the perfect place to go for information. It didn't hurt that they served great steaks and I was starving.

I took off my hat, holding it close to my chest, as I passed the stage. The stage was one of the main draws of the Broken Monkey (the other being its back room). It was shaped like an extended tongue, with room for a grand piano on the right and enough space for a small orchestra on the left. In the middle of the tongue's tip was a free-standing microphone. Miss Jill Roberts was headlining tonight, singing an old staple of her set, "Doin' What Comes Natur'lly."

Jill was not what I would call the best singer in the world, but her voice had always had something I considered more valuable: character. It was throaty and rough and fit Jill's personality to a T. We exchanged winks as I moved, weaving through the rowdy crowd with the ease and skill of a veteran sailor on a wind-tossed deck, to hit up my first objective: Lester Patel, the squirrelly half of Chicago's slobbiest lowlife duo.

He had his table, right smack in the middle of the action, which is where Lester always thrived. It's why he started running numbers in the first place. His hair was slicked back, but his clothes were unkempt, and he had a forgotten cigarette burning its way toward his left hand. His eyes bounced like black junebugs. He looked about one wrong gesture away from scurrying around like a rat.

I sat down across from him and waited for him to look up from the notebook he was scribbling in. He didn't look surprised to see me. Curious. "Carmichael," he said.

I smiled easily, hoping to put him at ease. "How's the numbers game, Lester?"

Lester's eyes shifted this way and that. I didn't know what he was looking for. No coppers were going to suddenly pop out of the woodwork. The Chicago boys in blue knew that the Broken Monkey was neutral ground (for what Big Mike surely paid them, they had better know). Seemingly satisfied that nobody was eavesdropping, Lester leaned forward and whispered unnecessarily, "Got a tip on a hot pony. You interested?"

I shook my head. "You know I don't play the ponies, Lester."

Lester shook his head like a mangy dog (not a hair moved). "Too bad. Got an inside man, he says 'Lady in Red' is a sure thing. Across the board all the way. I'll even give you the gentleman's special."

"Tempting, Lester, tempting. But that's not why I'm here."

Lester sat back down in his chair with a nervous laugh. "I don't know nothin'."

"Now we both know that's not true," I said. I saw one of the table girls walk by and smiled in her direction. She came over and I placed an order for the Broken Monkey's special coconut rum. "And a Pink Lady for my friend here."

Lester glared at me for the drink order. As soon as the table girl left, he leaned forward. "What do you want, Carmichael? I'm running a business here."

I shrugged. "You didn't look too busy, just thought I'd say hello."

"Well, you've said it, now scram before the others start to think I'm your stoolie."

"But Lester," I said with a smirk, "you _are_ my stoolie. And speaking of which, I'm looking for a fellow, a real unlucky sort, mixed up in some shady business."

Lester chuckled darkly and said, "This is Chicago, Carmichael. If you ain't wheelin' and dealin', you're on the take for somebody who is."

"Then that should make finding this Larkin a piece of cake."

"You'd think so, but I ain't getting involved in anything that's got the Bishop's goons frosting every eye in town."

I fought a grin at his slip. So somebody had been by the Monkey with news of Larkin already. Interesting. I pulled out a five spot and held it in front of him like a bauble in front of a fish. Lester made an angry swipe for the bill and missed. "Nah-uh, Lester. Not until you tell me how you know about what the Bishop's up to."

Lester scoffed and seemed to finally remember he had a cigarette in his hand. He brought it up and took a short drag before grinding it into an ash tray. "Come on, Carmichael, everybody knows the Bishop is always up to something. He's got every wag in town on the look for this Larkin of yours. I ain't getting involved in that kind of action."

I frowned. Lester always sang like a canary at the slightest hint of easy dough. "That's all you've heard?"

Lester placed his pencil on the table and leaned back in his chair. "I said all I'm gonna say. So you interested in my tip or not? Lady in Red."

I stood up and tossed the five spot onto the table in front of Lester. It disappeared faster than a rat from a sinking ship. "I told you, I don't play the ponies."

"That's too bad. This is a really good tip."

I just slipped my hat on. "You let me know if you hear anything useful, got it?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'll keep my ear to the ground." He stopped and looked around the bar. "As long as that ground is in here. I'm not goin' anywhere near this Larkin business, Carmichael. You're on your own, there."

"Didn't figure it would be any other way with you, Les." I walked away. Lester was usually more reliable than that, which said a lot about Larkin. You'd think with everybody and their brother looking for him, I'd have heard something a little more substantial than a warning and a stonewall.

Since a man could only stomach so much disappointment, and my own stomach was grumbling like a drunk in the middle of Prohibition, I bellied up to the bar. Time for that steak.

That is, until I heard a familiar voice behind me purr, "Why, hello there, Mr. Carmichael."

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**mxpw's A/N the Second:** No second author's note from **Frea** today, so it's up to me to select the preview for the next chapter, which will drop on Monday. I'm sure you're all dying to know who it was that purred behind Chuck, so here's Jeff instead!

_"Did I hear you were lookin' for a fellow?" Jeff had ambled back up to my corner of the bar._

_"Uh, no, thanks, I think I'm set." Some people were just born to be frightening and oily, and Jeff took that role to heart. I grabbed my beer and thought that maybe there was something I should see over by the piano, as my steak would take awhile._

_But Jeff stopped me in my tracks. "Fellow by the name of Larkin, maybe?"_

_I turned slowly back to the bar. "You know about Larkin? You?"_

_He swiped a greasy hand across the front of his vest. "Could be I hear things, too."_

_"Could be." I put my elbow up on the bar and rested my chin on my fist. "Where'd you hear about Larkin?"_

Administrative note: As you may know (or may not know), **Frea** is on vacation right now, and has given me control of her account. So...yeah. This is going to be fun.


	4. The Monkey and the Lady

******Frea's A/N the First**: Aw, thanks for the reviews, guys! You're wonderful. If all's going to plan, I'm in Vienna, soaking up architecture and eating schnitzel, but I'm really excited that you get to read this chapter today. It has one of my favorite scenes of the entire story (Chuck mouthing off at people will always be a favorite, and finally, MY character has arrived; also, if you squint, you might see a Spies & Nerds/Fates character make a cameo), and I really love what we've done with Jill here. Haters to the left! Thanks to our fantastic beta readers, **quistie64** and **Steampunk Chuckster**, who are complex individuals that teach me new ways to be awesome and upbeat everyday! And thanks, **Max**, for being a fantastic cowriter and an even better friend (and also not a crustacean).

**mxpw's A/N the First:** I'm also glad I'm not a crustacean. Recent personal experience has taught me they live short lives and are delicious. Speaking of delicious things, how about this story, eh? That was smooth. Thank you to everyone who is enjoying the story and reading and leaving reviews! We appreciate all of you. I am not currently in Vienna, though I may eat a Vienna sausage later today, so, you know, it's almost the same thing, right?

* * *

**The Monkey and the Lady**

I took off my hat and rose. "Miss Roberts," I said, even though she's told me ten thousand times to call her Jill.

"Jill," she corrected. Ten thousand and one.

I gave her the winning Carmichael smile. Sarah always said it was not as effective as I think it is, but a fellow can't help but try. Back before the War, Jill and I had gone stepping out. She knew just as well as I did that I thought of her as Jill in my mind. But my friend Ellie had told me to be respectful to the ladies. And you listened to Ellie Bartowski when she told you to do something.

"The woman of the hour," I told Jill, pulling out the stool next to mine so that we could both sit at the bar. "You sounded good tonight."

"Thanks." She waved a hand to fan her face. The Monkey could get a bit warm even in the bitterest of Chicago winters. "Buy a girl a drink, Mr. Carmichael?"

"Certainly. He—heck," I corrected myself mid-oath because Ellie's voice at the back of my mind reminded me that it was never proper to swear in front of a lady, "I'll buy you a dinner."

"Aren't you the sweetest."

The Monkey's boozehound of a barkeep, the other half of the dubious Jeff-and-Lester pairing, had wandered to the other end of the bar, but that didn't matter. I leaned over and snagged one of the brews out of the bucket of ice under the counter. It was already beginning to sweat as I twisted the cap off and handed it to Jill.

"Thank you."

One thing I liked about Jill was that she wasn't real prissy. She liked her beer just like any other proper Chicago resident: cold and dark. We let silence flow for a minute while we took our appreciative sips—say what you will about the man, Big Mike always stocked the good stuff.

Eventually, she began to dig through her clutch for a pack of Camels. "What brings you to the Monkey, Chuck? You're not normally here on Thursdays."

"Just wanted to hear your voice, dollface," I said. No way was I going to tell her that thugs had broken into my office, or that I'd spent the entire day developing foot problems and little else. "Been awhile."

"I tried to call," Jill said.

"You did?" That was news to me.

"Yeah, several times. You been busy or something?"

"Secretary went on the fritz." I gave Jill a sad smile. "She left me cold and broken."

She looked as though she might have liked to say something about—what, I don't know, since Sarah and Jill had never socialized much—but Jill just nodded. Jeff finally wove a drunken path down to our little section of the bar. "Hey, Chuck, man," he said, peering at both of us through red-rimmed eyes. "Getcha something?"

Jill leaned away, almost imperceptibly. Jeff has that effect on the female of any species.

"Coupla steak dinners. Burnt for me, but make the lady's medium-rare."

"Put it on your tab?"

"Yes," I said, hiding my wince. If I didn't pick up any clients soon…

"Big Mike's around tonight."

"Excellent. I'll talk to him in awhile. Just gotta have dinner with the prettiest gal in the place first."

Jill giggled, but didn't blush. She used to blush all the time, when I'd come a-courtin' (as they say), but too much time had passed, and too much history existed. We were better off friends. She'd put it that way herself, and the fact that it didn't shatter my heart told me she maybe had a point.

Still, I wasn't lying: Jill's a stunning dame.

When she held a cigarette up to her lips, I dug out my matchbook and struck up a flame for her. Her eyes nearly crossed at the first drag.

"Thanks, handsome," she said once she'd had her fix. "Mikey doesn't like me smokin' during my acts. You look a bit worn," she said, glancing down at my mud-spattered trousers. Rain puddles hadn't been very nice to my shoes, either, but she didn't comment. "You walk all of Michigan Avenue today or something?"

"Or something," I said. "Lookin' for a fellow."

"A fellow, huh? I thought you didn't take those cases?"

"I don't. Just satisfying a curiosity. And sometimes it's good to go back to my roots." I gave her a knowing look.

She returned it with a sad smile attached. Neither one of us would be sitting at the Monkey sharing a beer and a steak if I hadn't taken on a very significant missing person's case: Jill's. Sometimes I don't think she's happy that I found her in that slowpoke Wisconsin town, and convinced her to come back to Chicago with me. She makes a good living singing for Big Mike and his boys, but maybe she'd have been better off staying with the dairy farmers I'd found her with back in '46.

I took a drink of beer and forced the past back where it belonged. "And I didn't take the case, not for anybody particular. Something just seems…fishy about it."

"Fishy?" Jill tapped her cigarette on one of the palm tree-shaped ashtrays.

"Yeah," I said, and belatedly remembered Ellie's etiquette lessons. "I mean, yes. Something doesn't make sense about it, you know?" Between the thugs and the southern belle gracing my poor office in the course of a single afternoon, "Doesn't make sense" was probably a generous description. If Bryce Larkin had attracted the Bishop's attention, at least one of my informants should have heard of the cat. "But it's not important, and I shouldn't really be even thinking about it when I've got bigger problems to worry about."

Like how I was going to pay my bar tab, I thought, hiding a wince behind a sip of beer. Used to be, Big Mike took it on faith that I would be able to pay him, but after that blow-up with Milbarge double-crossing Father Moses last year, he's been a mite suspicious of everybody.

"The guy you're looking for, he's not dead, is he?" Jill gave me a fearful look.

"Probably not," I said. "They'll likely find him in some hotel room. No need to worry about it. In fact, neither of us should worry about it. Tell me about what's been happening with you lately. You still stepping out with that fellow—Terrence? Tyler?"

"Tobias? No, he moved out west. California somewhere, I think." Jill rolled her eyes with what I thought was a healthy and appropriate disdain for the entire state of California. "Any new broads in your life, Chuck?"

"Broads?" I asked, laughing.

"That's what all the cool cats are saying these days, right? Broads?"

"Oh, Miss Roberts, the only broad in my life is you. And Ellie, of course. And Sa—" I broke off mid-sentence. Sarah _wasn't _a broad in my life anymore. She'd vanished without a trace. I tried to cover it with a laugh. "And Miss Anna, of course."

As I said this last bit, I turned on my stool and smiled at the diminutive Anna Wu. Big Mike had hired her about three years prior, and she filled the role of everyman for him far better than any man could ever hope to. She didn't even hit my shoulder, but the woman could take down footballers with ease.

"Speaking of which," I went on. "Hello."

She gave me her normal predatory smile and looked pointedly at the brew in my hand. "Hey, Carmichael. You payin' for that?"

"It's on my tab."

Anna gave me a skeptical look, which I felt was a bit unfair. I'd only missed paying my tab twice, or maybe three times. Those had been bad times, though.

"I'll pay it, I promise," I said, though I wasn't sure if I was lying or not.

She gave a firm nod, as if she'd expected nothing less, and turned her attention to Jill. "The boss-man wants you to do another set."

Jill sighed. "It's past eleven."

"He'll pay time and a half."

Apparently, the lure of that much money was simply too tempting for Jill. I wondered if things were as "okay" as she claimed, as she didn't put up a protest, but simply nodded. Her work done, Anna gave me a final stern look and walked away.

Jill bit her bottom lip in regret. "I'd better go," she said, rising to her feet. I stood up, too. "If the boss wants another set…"

"I understand. I'll have them keep your dinner warm for you, though I probably won't be around too much longer." I needed to stop by Our Lady of the Lilies and see Ellie. Delgado and Colt were all bluster and no bite three quarters of the time—it was easy to make your living through intimidation when you were roughly the size of Mount Kilimanjaro like Mr. Colt—but with Ellie, I wasn't taking any chances. I'd have a word with the guard at the hospital, too. Just to make sure he wasn't one of the Bishop's many plants.

"Chuck, you don't have to do that," Jill said.

"I know, I want to." I smiled and kissed her on the cheek. "Knock 'em dead."

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling as she walked away.

Alone, I sat back down to my beer and brooding. Something about the Bryce situation just wouldn't leave me alone.

"Did I hear you were lookin' for a fellow?" Jeff had ambled back up to my corner of the bar.

"Uh, no, thanks, I think I'm set." Some people were just born to be frightening and oily, and Jeff took that role to heart. I grabbed my beer and thought that maybe there was something I should see over by the piano, as my steak would take awhile.

But Jeff stopped me in my tracks. "Fellow by the name of Larkin, maybe?"

I turned slowly back to the bar. "You know about Larkin? You?"

He swiped a greasy hand across the front of his vest. "Could be I hear things, too."

"Could be." I put my elbow up on the bar and rested my chin on my fist. "Where'd you hear about Larkin?"

"Some guy."

"Yeah?" If Jimmy the Ratcatcher was coming up empty on Larkin's whereabouts, it seemed a bit of a stretch that Jeff Barnes would know anything. But a desperate man doesn't have a lot of options when he's drowning in a sea of nothingness. "What guy?"

"Dunno, just some guy."

This was going well.

"Bragging about how he'd found a guy named Bryce Larkin, and he was going to make a lot of money," Jeff went on.

Well, that fit with the Bishop's story of offering up to fifteen grand to any private dick willing to toss his hat into the ring. Jeff leaned forward, a greedy gleam in his reddened eyes. "Lotta money," he repeated. "If you're looking for Larkin, too, does that mean you're up for a lotta money?"

If I found Larkin first and took the Bishop's pay-off, sure. But it would be a cold day in July before I touched the Bishop's blood money.

But now, I shrugged. "Sure."

"And I get a cut?"

"If the information's good."

"It's good, I promise." Jeff's head bobbled.

I'd have to remember to scrounge up the money to pay him, or at least hope that the memory of our conversation was lost to the ether of Jeff's brain. "And how do I know that you're not just saying that to win me over, sweetheart?"

The sarcastic endearment tripped Jeff up; I could see him searching his memory, trying to figure out why I would call him sweetheart when he was neither, as the good Sergeant had put it to me earlier, pretty or female. He must have decided to let sleeping dogs lie, for he visibly shook it off and leaned forward. It made me want to lean back. I didn't.

"A'cos," Jeff said, his voice low and his eyes gleaming, "I wasn't supposed to hear it."

"Okay, Jeff, I'll play your game. When and where did you hear it?"

"I told you—"

"I know, some guy. But where'd you happen upon this fine fellow?"

"Here. At the Monkey." Jeff's tone made it obvious that that was a stupid question; he didn't go anywhere else but occasionally to the alley behind the Monkey, where I knew he kept a cot out by the rubbish bins. "He was with some other fellow, a real badger-lookin' sort. They paid me up front for the drinks. Tipped well, too. So I did 'em a service of listenin' in on their conversation, better to serve 'em, you know?"

Jeff's logic worked only in Jeff's world, but I took a pull of my beer and nodded for him to continue.

"And they're going on and on about some guy that stole somethin'."

This was new.

"And now how everybody from the Bishop to his Aunt Shirley's looking for this cat."

"What'd you hear about Larkin and his whereabouts? And Jeff, if this information leads me to the back of some flophouse lookin' for a guy named Skinny Larry again or helping some old woman get her cat out of a tree, you're not seeing a dime."

Jeff's face was still a picture of eagerness. "I hear there's some business going on down on at the docks."

"And the Lake's wet. So?"

"So's maybe Larkin's a businessman."

"You're saying Larkin's going to be at the docks," I said.

"Yes."

"Why couldn't you just say that?"

Jeff looked puzzled. "Dunno?"

I had to sigh, though the thought of having real, concrete information for once was like a siren song to my blood. "Did your mysterious gent say when?"

"Tonight. Late."

I checked my pocket watch. "Late" was fast approaching, if it wasn't here already, and Jeff's inside information would likely lead to nothing but more blisters. But on the positive side, Our Lady of the Lilies was on the way to the docks, so it wasn't like I wasn't going to already be in that area already.

So I took a last swig of my beer and set the bottle on the counter. "Thanks, Jeff. If the information's good, we'll talk."

"We will," Jeff said solemnly.

I paused before I reached the front door. Big Mike would have to wait for another night, I decided. Besides, it would be the same dance with him. Either we would do the why-haven't-you-paid-your-tab tango, or it would be the come-work-for-me quickstep. Both would have to wait for a different night. So I put my hat on, tossed a cheery goodbye wave to Jill, who was chatting up a businessman standing by the stage. She didn't see me, but one of the cigarette vendors gave me a wink as I headed into the Chicago night.

* * *

Our Lady of the Lilies was one of the oldest and best established hospitals in Chicago. To tourists, that meant it had a venerated history with loads of "historical" patients. To locals, that simply meant they knew exactly what happened at Lady of the Lilies: anything and everything. Racketeering, moonshining, murder, extortion, all just a days' work at the Lady.

These days, however, it was struggling to rise above that. A patient had a halfway decent chance of making it if he or she could get through those front doors, for instance. And all of that was thanks to one Eleanor F. Bartowski. I worried about her—life rarely ends well for the zealously ideal—but Ellie was tough. She proved it to Morgan and me when we were seven by sitting on Morgan until he gave her marble shooter back. We'd come a long way from scraped knees and agate shooters, but old habits die hard.

I nodded to the security guard working the lobby as I let myself in through the doctor's entrance. Unlike the desk officer at the 42nd, we had a congenial relationship. Dave was a Cubbies fan and our shared misery brought us together. I continued on down a hallway that smelled like antiseptic and misery.

For once, my timing seemed to be right in line, as just as I strolled into Ellie's tiny office, Maurice Tarplin finished out his closing monologue. An advertisement for Shiney's All-Lather soap came on. "Hi, El," I said.

Ellie looked up from the stack of folders she had probably been ignoring while _The Mysterious Traveler _played. Why she loved that radio program so much, I'm not sure. I was much more of a _Adventures of Superman _or Sam Spade kind of fellow, but Ellie always liked the spooky stuff. "Chuck!" She rose to her feet to give me a hug. "What are you doing here so late?"

"Legwork, of course."

"You work too much."

"I'm in good company." I plopped into her creaky visitor's chair and took off my hat. Ellie gave me a scolding look as she put it on the hat peg for me. "Just finishing up, or are you going to be here awhile?"

"Not for too much longer. Just had some paperwork." Ellie gestured at the stack on her desk as she sat down.

I set the bag I'd stopped at the deli for on the desk. "Brought you a late dinner."

"Aren't you sweet. Thank you." Ellie dug into the sack and pulled out sandwiches for both of us. I hadn't had time to wait for my steak dinner at the Broken Monkey, after all. "Were you just thinking of me, or do you have ulterior motives for being here?" Her eyes cut down to my leg.

So she'd seen the limp. With all the walking I'd done all over Chicago, the war wound was making its presence known. "Both. Neither. But my leg's fine. Mostly I'm here to enjoy a meal with a long-time friend."

"Well, cheers to that, then." Ellie toasted me with the root beer she pulled out of the sack. There were smudges beneath her eyes, and of course the hospital lighting didn't make either of us look great. But Ellie truly loved her job, which helped; neither of our parents had been around when we were kids, which was why Morgan, Ellie, and I had been friends at all. We made up for it in our own way these days, as adults. Ellie looked across the desk at me and I could see her assessing me just the same as I was currently doing to her. "Haven't found your Effie yet, huh?" she asked, handing me the second root beer.

The Sam Spade reference made me smile. "I will. She just needs a little time to cool off." From what, I had no idea. I had thought things were fine, until Sarah had just up and quit on me. "How're things at the Lady? That new doctor working out well?"

"He's already the most popular doctor on staff," Ellie said. "I wasn't sure if hiring him was such a good move, with his background, but he knows what he's doing."

"That's excellent, then. I'm glad. You sounded like you could really use the help." And something about the way Ellie avoided mentioning this new doctor by name made me want to look him up. But that was probably just the paranoid flatfoot in me. "Listen, Ellie, I wanted to talk to you about something..."

She groaned. "You're working a case. I knew it. I knew you couldn't just be dropping by."

"Hey, I drop by all the time!"

"But you never bring sandwiches unless you're working a case. What is it this time? Some husband stepping out on his wife?"

"No," I said. "It's..."

"Are they at least paying you? I know you're having a hard time making ends meet right now, Chuck."

"Not as hard a time of it as you'd think." I attempted a feeble smile. "I don't have to pay a secretary, after all."

Ellie rolled her eyes. "Do you need help?"

"I'm fine," I said, and hoped it was true. "There's just...there's something going on, and it's got the whole city up in arms, and I don't know what any of it means. But the Bishop's involved."

"I thought good old Vincent had been rather quiet lately," Ellie said. "He's still got two of my nurses in his pocket, I know he does."

He likely had more than that, but I wasn't going to be the one to bring that to Ellie's attention. "Had a visit from a couple of his goons today. It's probably nothing, and I don't want to worry you unnecessarily, but if you could do me a favor and have Dave walk you home for the next while, I would really appreciate it. And don't go anywhere alone."

"You worry too much."

"I know. But humor me anyway."

Ellie looked at me frankly. "Are you in trouble, Chuck?"

"I don't think so. I just don't like the Bishop, you know that. He's still mad that I wouldn't find Kevin the Mouse last year. You don't want to be on his bad side." I gave Ellie my most entreating look. "Just watch your back, okay? For me? For a little while?"

"Only because it's you. And if I find out you're actually in trouble and you lied to me about it, I will make sure you never get anesthesia in this hospital again, Charles Irving."

Since I knew she wasn't bluffing, I chose to nod. "Yes, ma'am."

"You're the closest thing to family I have," Ellie said.

"Same goes for you, Eleanor Faye."

"And it'd be a pain to deal with Morgan without you. So watch yourself."

"Same goes for you," I repeated, and cleared my throat. It was time for a change of subject. "So what did the _Mysterious Traveler_ do today? Sounded like a pretty good show, from what I heard."

* * *

**mxpw's A/N the Second:** Again no second author's note from **Frea**. How are you liking things so far? Here's a taste of what's in store for you guys next chapter:

_The man stepped forward, and light fell across his face, giving me my first solid look. He was handsome in a conventional sense, tall and broad, but looking at him, I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the wind. Something about his too-dark eyes in an impressively blank face seemed...off. The fact that he was pointing a revolver at me more or less put a damper on any attractiveness he might have had, too. I took in the details, just in case: a worn and unimaginative suit, expected unwarranted obedience, and carrying a .38 Special. It all screamed G-man._

_"I don't have any money," I said. "Look, you're better off hitting up the next unlucky john, I'm—"_

_"I'm not here for your money," the man said. "And I told you to shut up."_

_"Hey, hey," I said, even as I cursed Jeff with every fiber of my being for the bum information. "We're all friends here, no need for hostility. Or…guns."_

_The man took a step forward. "You're under arrest."_


	5. Crooked Branch

******Frea's A/N the First**: Whomp whomp whomp, the chapter is heeeeeeere. That's right, it's time to pile things onto Chuck and make them even twistier than they were before! I'm still in Vienna, chilling with Mozart and the boys, but I wanted to give a shout-out to everybody who's tweeted, tumbled, reviewed, sent messages, that awesome smoke signal I saw yesterday. You guys are the best, and it's a pleasure to be writing for you. Thanks to our great beta readers, **quistie64** and **Steampunk Chuckster**, for being fabulous and helping us sort out this story! And as ever, thanks, **Max**. Just because.

**mxpw's A/N the First:** This chapter took forever to write. It just wouldn't work. But eventually we got it under control and I like what came of it. In many ways, this is the last setup chapter for the story. After this chapter, things really kick into high gear. So I hope you guys are ready for a thrilling adventure. Also, let me just say thank you for your patience and willing to read this story despite the lack of a certain blonde we all know and love. For being so awesome, there's something for you at the end of the chapter.

* * *

**Crooked Branch**

Two hours later, I had nothing but the beginnings of a good case of frostbite. If somebody was meeting for business down at the docks, they'd wised up and taken it to warmer quarters. I'd been there for over an hour, teeth chattering the whole time thanks to a biting wind off the Lake, wind that cut through my clothes like knives.

And what had I found? Nothing. Nada. A big fat zero.

I don't know why that surprised me, considering the source of my information. I knew better. But the lure of anything connected to Bryce Larkin, any lead on a case that was making me more and more miserable by the second, had been too much to ignore. So much that I had trusted the word of a man who probably hadn't looked up from the bottom of a bottle in years. One thing was for sure, Jeff wouldn't see a dime of my money. I was cold, my leg was bothering me something fierce, and the frustration of finding nothing after skulking around slip after slip was really starting to mount.

It wasn't that I hadn't found anything at all. I mean, this was Chicago. This was no city of angels. I'd seen enough illegal activity to make Casey rub his hands together in anticipation of some quality skull crackin'. But no Larkin, which was all I personally cared about.

What was so important about this wag, anyway?

I spat out a curse that would have made Ellie box my ears, and decided I had had enough. I'm stubborn as a mule and twice as foolhardy besides, but even I have my limits. I could start digging for fresh leads tomorrow. Maybe I'd hit up Morgan and see if he knew anything from the dailies. The docks might be empty of Bryce Larkin, but if the Bishop was interested enough to drop fifteen big ones, somebody was going to notice _something_, even in a place like Chicago.

But first, I needed to call for a cab. No way would I make the long trek home, and even the thought of walking to the South Boulevard El station made me want to cry. I'll admit, I wasn't paying attention to my surroundings as much I usually do. I'd like to say it was because I'd gotten used to _her_ watching my back, but really, I was tired and that made it easy for any fat-head to sneak up on me with a pistol.

For example: I made it halfway to the payphone near Pier 12 when I heard the sound of a gun hammer being pulled back right behind my right ear. It's a pretty unmistakable noise, even if I hadn't had a gun pointed at my head a time or two.

My first thought was the Bishop. Maybe he had finally gotten tired of me giving him lip. Or maybe it was one of Chicago's other, finer criminals. Sarah had always believed—erroneously and unjustly, I felt—that I attracted more trouble than any human had any right to.

"Turn around slowly. Keep your hands where I can see them."

I didn't recognize the voice, but that didn't mean much. I'd had dealings with most of the Bishop's hatchetman, but not all of them. And I'd made enough enemies over the years to have a veritable _Who's Who of the Chicago Underworld_ gunning for my head at any point of time: Crazy Laszlo, Lon "the Playboy" Kirk, Uncle Bernie and his Downtown Boys all held grudges, just to name a few. Little Lizzie Cutler still had it out for me for telling Casey about the casino in the basement of her specialty sandwich shop.

A gun's a gun, so I did as I was told. I stuck my hands out and turned around slowly. "If you're after a quick buck, buddy, I'm not your guy."

"Shut up."

The man stepped forward, and light fell across his face, giving me my first solid look. He was handsome in a conventional sense, tall and broad, but looking at him, I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the wind. Something about his too-dark eyes in an impressively blank face seemed...off. The fact that he was pointing a revolver at me more or less put a damper on any attractiveness he might have had, too. I took in the details, just in case: a worn and unimaginative suit, expected unwarranted obedience, and carrying a .38 Special. It all screamed G-man.

"I don't have any money," I said. "Look, you're better off hitting up the next unlucky john, I'm—"

"I'm not here for your money," the man said. "And I told you to shut up."

"Hey, hey," I said, even as I cursed Jeff with every fiber of my being for the bum information. "We're all friends here, no need for hostility. Or…guns."

The man took a step forward. "You're under arrest."

To my knowledge, I hadn't done anything illegal—lately. I mean, sure, I wasn't really supposed to be poking around the docks at this hour, but this was Chicago. Being nosy merited a slap on the wrist at best, not a trip downtown in bracelets. Being a private dick, especially in a town like mine, meant you had to either develop finely tuned instincts or start getting fitted for your overcoat and concrete boots. And right now my instincts were screaming. There was something fishy going on, fishier even than Lake Michigan in summer. Whoever this man was, he wasn't on the straight and narrow. And I needed to run, which was easier said than done when my leg hurt and the man was pointing a .38 Special at my chest.

Given that most of his answers had included some variation of "shut up," there wasn't much of a chance of me talking my way out of this one, I realized. But there's one thing that has never failed me (Sarah and Ellie might beg to differ), so I decided to try that.

I have one talent in this world: I am really, really good at making bad guys angry.

"Look, buddy," I said, "I don't know who you think you are, but I haven't done anything wrong. I'm cold, I'm tired, and I've had a really crappy day so why don't you leave me the hell alone?"

The big man took another step forward. "If you know what's good for you, you'll shut up."

"Let me see a badge. I'm not going anywhere until I see some proof you're not one of the Bishop's men trying to take me for a ride." Not that having a badge really precluded somebody from being on the Bishop's payroll, but I needed every second I could get. My right hand inched closer to my pistol.

To my surprise, the other man actually produced a shield. In the dim lamplight, I could see that it was real shiny, too, and authentic looking, which told me either this man polished it obsessively or he hadn't had it long. Either way, it was somehow worse that he actually did have a shield. I knew where I stood with the Bishop and his goons. I didn't know what I'd done to have a genuine Hooverman after me.

"Special Agent Shaw. I'm with the Federal Bureau of Investigation," the man said. He clenched his jaw. I could almost feel the tension coming off him in waves.

Casey had said there was a FBI agent sniffing around, one who had his men spooked. And standing there among the crates waiting to be loaded onto Pier 12, I could certainly see why. Maybe it was the way his gun hand wasn't even quivering, though he'd been holding up that .38 for quite a long time. Maybe it was the fact that he was trying to arrest me.

But something told me I _really _needed to get away from this guy. What was he even doing at the docks? Was he working off the same information I was? Coincidences, in my experience, never actually were. Was it possible Shaw was actually looking for me? I'd never met him and he hadn't addressed me by name, and though his eyes were flat and dark, I couldn't help but perceive a sense of smug confidence.

I hoped I wasn't too obvious as I looked around for an escape route. There were crates stacked high about twenty feet. I could duck behind them in a pinch, provided I could get my bum leg to move. And in the distance, the voices of distant night dock workers carried on the bitterly sharp wind. I knew better than to count on them to be in my corner, though. Not too many people would willingly cross a Hooverman, and besides, he could have them on his payroll already.

"I've been looking for you all night," Shaw said.

My stomach sank. "I didn't do anything," I said. Shooting my way out was an even worse idea than running. Shaw was a cop—a dirty copper, maybe, but I couldn't know for sure—which meant taking him down would have cops after me, and that wasn't my style anyway. But I couldn't run with that hand cannon pointed right at me either. "Look, Agent Shaw, this must all be some kind of big misunderstanding—"

From the docks, there was a cacophonous _crack_, a boom that hurt my ears. It was probably just Teamsters dropping a crate, but it gave me the opportunity I needed. Shaw spun in the direction of the clanging commotion. I sprang forward, just like Sergeant Mankowitz had drilled into me back in Basic, and hit Shaw in his midsection with my shoulder.

It was like hitting a brick wall head on. Needless to say, it hurt quite a lot.

The bigger man went tumbling. My leg nearly buckled me to the ground, but I scrambled to keep my balance. Even though Shaw was shouting, I didn't stick around to find out what he had to say. I split faster than you could say "Jack Robinson."

I knew where I was going: being able to navigate the docks was essential in my line of work. I tried my best to avoid them, but sometimes a case made that impossible. So when I had to work the docks, I made a point to grease a few palms, learn the warehouses, and come loaded for bear. So I left Shaw in the dust and I ran for Warehouse 13. A fellow there still owed me a favor for giving his old lady proof he didn't visit the flop houses. If I could get inside the building, Mac would hide me.

The snap of gunfire rang out. I felt a breeze whiz past my head and a crate ahead of me exploded a shower of splinters onto the ground. I flinched and zigged to my left. Guess I was taking the long way to 13.

Now not only did I have a man out to arrest me, he was taking shots. Hot damn, I needed to ditch this mope. Another shot joined the first, missing me but hitting the concrete nearby. I heard it ricochet. I doubted Shaw would have the patience or coordination to reload on the run, so I just had to pray he missed four more times. His third shot was the wildest yet, which was good, because my leg felt like somebody had run through it with a bayonet.

I tripped. I'm not sure on what, but one second I was looking over my shoulder to see how much distance I'd created, and the next I was flying through the air.

I landed hard on my left side, sliding along the cold concrete like I was making for home. My hat tumbled free as I pushed myself to my feet. When I reached to scoop up the hat—it's hard to find a good hat, even in Chicago—Shaw's fourth shot left a nick in the asphalt near my arm. Part of the bullet must have fractured off, for the next thing I know, I was up and running toward 13, right arm cradled to my chest. And I was definitely leaking.

What did it say about my priorities that the only thing I could think about as I ran was that if she had to sew me up for the thousandth time, Ellie was going to kill me?

Shot five wasn't even close. I cursed my bad luck. It was obvious the crazy copper couldn't hit the broad side of my uncle's barn, and yet I had a dripping arm for my troubles.

I ducked under a low hanging pallet and found myself cornered. I was near Warehouse 13, but somehow I'd made a wrong turn. The narrow corridor between packing crates had sent me into a fitting dead end, surrounded by stacked shipping containers. There was nowhere to go but up, and there was no way my leg would let me do that.

Shaw's heavy footfalls echoed on the concrete. I whirled around to see him appear at the mouth of the little alley I found myself in. The bastard didn't even have the good grace to be winded, while I had to gulp in huge lungfuls of biting dock air just to breathe. Sometimes, life just wasn't fair.

I braced a hand against the nearest shipping crate to keep upright. Two things stood out to me: there was something almost approaching anger on the man's face, and even worse, he was reloading the .38 with steady hands. "Now I've got you on resisting arrest, too," he said, looking at me as he finished reloading. The _snick-click_ that sounded as the cylinder locked into place rang with a sense of finality that made me look wildly around for a way to escape.

Stall, my brain told me. I had to stall. He was either going to arrest me or he was going to shoot me, and if there was one thing I'd learned dealing with Chicago's crooks: if I stalled long enough, if I talked long enough, _she _would find me.

"What are you arresting me for?" I asked, wheezing a little. My arm was on fire and my leg felt worse. Jeff Barnes was a dead man the next time I saw him. "What do you even want with me?"

"Nothing you would understand, Mr. Carmichael. But I must thank you for making my job easier." Shaw smiled and I could only describe the expression as cruel.

As it happened, I don't know what it was about tonight: my luck suddenly turning, the Fates smiling down on me, God, or maybe just my guardian angel, but suddenly the night sounded like the very air itself was being ripped apart.

It's hard to mistake the sound of a Tommy gun opening up, and during my days on the beat, I've heard it more times than I'd like to count—they call it the Chicago typewriter for a reason. I've only been on the receiving end of it once and it was one of the most terrifying experiences of my life. But tonight, it was like sweet, sweet music as the loudest son-of-a-bitch on the block came to my rescue.

The lack of sudden ventilation holes in my jacket and shoes told me the shooter wasn't aiming for me. Tommy guns aren't accurate, but they generally don't miss _that _bad. An explosion of sparks surrounded Shaw. He danced a waltz as he tried to avoid the spray of bullets slamming into the ground at his feet and ricocheting off the metal containers behind him.

I stood there and gaped for a few seconds, too surprised to really move. She'd never used a Tommy gun before. Whoever my guardian angel was, she liked knives. But eventually the voice in the back of my head that sounded suspiciously like Sarah's insisted that I should run. Having learned long ago never to argue with a woman if it could be helped—I always ended up losing—I listened.

I ran. I had to go past Shaw to do it, but the man was too busy lying on the ground to stop me. I couldn't tell if he was alive or dead and I wasn't about to stick around to find out. They say discretion is the better part of valor. In that moment, I felt like the soul of utter discretion.

I burst out of the alley as fast as my limp-run could manage and looked back, wondering if I'd see my rescuer. They couldn't be far. There was too little open space for the shooter to be too far off. Who had saved me? Why?

I stopped and tried to control my breathing so that I could listen, which wasn't easy with my heart thundering away in my ears. I could hear the sound of shouting men in the distance, likely searching for the commotion, and the sound of a siren in the far off distance as well. The boys in blue were finally coming to the rescue. Wonderful. I spun around in a circle, just listening. To the west, I barely made out the sound of boots on the pavement. I gave chase immediately.

I had to know who had just saved me. Furthermore, I needed to know why they had saved me and if they had any connection to Bryce Larkin.

Unfortunately, after all the night's events, I wasn't moving too well. All I saw, about a hundred feet in front of me, was the shape of a man running, briefly washed with amber as he crossed under a lamplight. It was impossible to keep up.

The sirens sounded closer and I knew I had to get out of there. If my rescuer had killed Shaw, the last thing I wanted to be was near a dead cop when the bulls arrived. I had enough problems as it was. So cursing Jeff Barnes, Bryce Larkin, and Agent Shaw, I began the long hobble-trek to the South Boulevard El and hoped I wouldn't bleed over everything on the way there.

* * *

**mxpw's A/N the Second:** Well, well, well, what did you all think of Shaw's appearance in the story? Poor Chuck just can't catch a break. Makes you wonder when things are gonna start to turn around for him.

_"Hence the stake-out," I said. My eggs arrived and I took my time sopping up the runnels of yellow with a piece of toast. "You really think you're going to find something?"_

_"Oh, I know I am." Morgan went quiet for a second, while I shoveled my breakfast in. "In fact, I already have."_

_"What?" I asked around a mouthful of toast._

_"Your secretary."_

_I nearly choked. "Sarah's involved in your conspiracy? That's not funny."_

_"Not my conspiracy, no. But unless I'm mistaken, that's her, walking toward the corner there." Morgan paused, his brow furrowing. "With a lamp."_


	6. The Secretary and the Lamp

******Frea's A/N the First**: Hello from Croatia! Hopefully I'm NOT sunburnt, though, you know, you can never tell. Oh, Chapter Six. Guys, the lamp has arrived. I repeat: the lamp has arrived! THIS IS NOT A DRILL. BATTLE STATIONS, EVERYONE. I hope this chapter is illuminating, lights you up, and makes you want to leave great reviews about how awesome **Max** is. Thanks to **Max**, to everybody who's reviewed, and to our wonderfully talented and fantastic beta readers, **quistie64** and **Steampunk Chuckster**!

**mxpw's A/N the First:** And thank you, **Frea**, for being as awesome as you are. Okay, guys, as my cowriter said, the lamp has finally arrived. Many of you have wondered where Sarah is or what she's been up to. All I can say is that this chapter contains only a morsel of Sarah's part of the story. But I know this is what you've all been waiting for, so sit down, kick back, and enjoy!

* * *

**The Secretary and the Lamp**

I woke the next morning a little cold, a little tired, and a lot sore. My limbs didn't seem to be cooperating very well as I went through my morning ablutions, shaving off the night's scruff, straightening my clothing for the day, cleaning and bandaging my wound. I picked a shirt I didn't care for much—a hated relative had given it to me—because the roominess of the sleeves would hide the bandage suitably. If Agent Shaw had survived and came at me again, he wouldn't know he'd hit me. There wasn't anything in the papers about a dead cop, but it had been pretty late when I'd left him at the dockyard. Maybe they hadn't had time to break the story before going to print.

So I had a dead man to find, a possibly-dead-or-possibly-crooked Fed, a Southern Belle for a possible client, and Chicago's most notorious crime boss to deal with, and nothing but a bunch of dead ends. What else to do but turn to my best friend?

It took awhile to hunt down Morgan G. Grimes. He worked nights in the inking room for the Trib, but most mornings, I could find him at the Broken Monkey, enjoying a nightcap. The Monkey's barstools were empty today.

"I think he's over at a diner on Eighteenth, down by the McAllister Building," one of the cigarette girls told me with a yawn. "He said something about a lead."

"Thanks," I said, and hit the streets. Morgan sometimes moonlighted as a cub reporter for the Trib, but he'd never managed to get more than a toe or two in the door at a time, even though he'd written a few pieces for _Stars & Stripes _while I was clinging to the backs of B-17s. Every time he made any progress, he found himself back inking papers. This might have had something to do with his tendency to see conspiracies everywhere. I'm pretty paranoid myself—comes with the job—but Morgan put me to shame.

Indeed, I found him all but plastered to the diner window as he stared at the McCallister Building.

I pulled off my hat and dropped it on the opposite side of his booth before sitting down. "Two eggs, over easy," I told the waitress, who'd tailed me to the table. "And coffee. Lots of coffee."

"Coming right up," she said, and whisked away Morgan's plate, which held nothing but crumbs. He'd been here awhile.

"What brings you to this side of town?" Morgan asked without turning away from the window.

"Stopped by the Monkey," I said. "The new cigarette girl—"

"Bunny."

"Very well. Bunny, then. Bunny said you were hanging out on this side of town today. Thought I'd pop in, catch up. Get some breakfast."

"You got a case?" Morgan finally tore his gaze away from the building across the street to give me a wide-eyed look. "Really? Without Sarah?"

That rankled. "I can work a case without Sarah."

"That wasn't what I—yeah, sure you can. What's the case?"

"I never said there was a case." My coffee arrived. I held onto the cup like a lifeline. "Just the Bishop stirring up some trouble. You should maybe lay low for a couple of days in case Delgado or Colt get bored."

"Great. It's been ages since I've had my front door kicked in. Guess I was due."

"Speak for yourself," I said, thinking of my broken office door. Would I even have an office left when I got back to it? Hopefully. I'm fond of the way the paint peels along the back wall. It gives me a sense of authenticity.

"You in trouble?" Morgan asked.

Shaw's wooden countenance rose to the forefront of my mind. "I'm fine," I said. "You into art deco now?"

"What?"

"You've been staring at that building since I got here, and something tells me you haven't developed a sudden interest in architecture."

"I'm a man of many interests, Chuck." Morgan attempted to look dignified—for a split-second. Excitement quickly replaced dignity, and my stomach began to sink. The only time he got that look on his face, was when there was usually a conspiracy around the corner. The return of Scarface. A political scandal at a local bakery. Something usually fairly ridiculous (though the bakery scandal turned out to be true; this _is _Chicago, after all). "Caught a hot lead."

"Oh yeah?" I downed the rest of my coffee. "What about?"

Morgan tossed a well-thumbed newspaper onto the table, barely missing a coffee spill. It was folded to reveal a page eighteen article, which I quickly perused. Scientist, found dead in his lab, no foul play suspected.

"What about it?" I asked, looking up from the bald, bespectacled man in the picture. "He slipped and fell."

"Alone. In his lab."

"It says the locks weren't jimmied and the lab was untouched. It looks like it was just an accident."

"That's what they _want_ you to think." Morgan rolled his eyes. "He was an important scientist, Chuck."

"So?"

"He probably knew something, and they killed him for it."

"Who killed him?"

"I dunno. Soviets, maybe. Germans. Either way, maybe he kept something important at his apartment and his killer'll come lookin' for it."

"Hence the stake-out," I said. My eggs arrived and I took my time sopping up the runnels of yellow with a piece of toast. "You really think you're going to find something?"

"Oh, I know I am." Morgan went quiet for a second, while I shoveled my breakfast in. "In fact, I already have."

"What?" I asked around a mouthful of toast.

"Your secretary."

I nearly choked. "Sarah's involved in your conspiracy? That's not funny."

"Not my conspiracy, no. But unless I'm mistaken, that's her, walking toward the corner there." Morgan paused, his brow furrowing. "With a lamp."

I was out of the booth like a shot, shouting over my shoulder that I'd be back to pay the tab. If Sarah was here, I needed to see her. Outside, the early morning sunlight, so unusual in Chicago, made me blink, but it didn't take much to spot Sarah. Not with hair that bright.

I threw decorum to the wind. "Sarah!" I called, not quite jogging and not quite running, either. But given my long legs, I can walk quickly when I put my mind to it. She was maybe half a block ahead of me, striding away, but there was no mistaking those heels or that gait. Sarah had always walked with purpose, while never seeming to be in a hurry at all. "Sarah Walker!"

The woman's shoulders tensed, and I breathed a sigh of relief. It really was Sarah.

She turned. As Morgan had claimed, she was indeed carrying some sort of table lamp. She also looked much nicer than I was used to—her hair swept up into a complicated-looking twist instead of the typical bun she usually wore around the office, her clothing and shoes fancier than I remembered. But then, she'd worked in a two-bit detectives' office, answering a phone that sometimes wouldn't ring for days. No need to dress up, not for me.

She blinked at me as I hustled up to her. "Where's your hat?"

I felt absently at my head. I hadn't even noticed I'd left it in the booth. "Oh, uh, it's around. You're here. What are you doing here?"

"What are _you _doing here?"

"I—you look good." I felt foolish saying it, but there didn't seem to be much else I _could _say. Except: "Where have you been? You dropped off the face of the earth! I have been worried sick!" Well, that part wasn't entirely true. I _had _been worried, but I'd been more frustrated than anything else.

Her shoulders came back up. "Which is entirely within my rights. I don't work for you, Mr. Carmichael."

Suddenly, the day seemed a lot colder. How on earth did the woman have that power, to change the weather with her eyes alone? "That wasn't—that wasn't what I meant." I wished suddenly that I hadn't forgotten my hat at all, as I could have used it to have something to do with my hands now. "I just thought, you know, we were friends, too, and then you disappeared, and..."

Sarah sighed and shifted her grip on the lamp. "We're friends, Chuck."

"Oh, good. It's Chuck again. I was worried you were going to keep it Mr. Carmichael, and then I'd have to call you Miss Walker."

"Though," Sarah said, her voice surprisingly acidic, "I must confess I'm mighty surprised you even noticed I was gone."

"Oh, that's just plain unfair, Miss Walker. With you gone, I have to eat the dill pickle that goes with my sandwich now."

In the past, that would have at least have earned me a smile. Now she just gave me an almost hopelessly blank look. "I see," she said, and turned to leave.

I hurried to fall into step with her. "Sorry, sorry, that was a really bad joke. But I _have _noticed. My life is so much emptier without you."

"I'm sure."

"My business is falling apart."

"You're resilient, you'll pick yourself up, Chuck." There was real sympathy in her voice.

"I don't think you understand." I gave her a pleading look. "I need you."

She didn't look at me. "I don't think you do."

"What? How can you say that? Everything's been awful since you quit. I can't keep a client to save my life, I can't find a single thing in my office—"

"I recommend cleaning it, then," Sarah said, her voice dry. We rounded the corner, heading toward the El station, and I kept up despite Sarah's brisk stride.

"I'll pay you double," I said.

"You can't afford it."

"I'll work harder."

"That's not what I meant. I meant, you can't afford me." Sarah stopped abruptly in the middle of the sidewalk, and I nearly tripped over my own feet to stop as well. "You're going to be fine, Chuck. Just clean your office and keep your head up. A case will come your way."

I stuffed my hands in my pockets. A month of staring at an empty seat, calling everybody I knew looking for her, and still, all it took was the look on her face right outside some drugstore in uptown Chicago to tell me that her decision was final. And to say I once was a fairly decent detective. "You can't possibly know that it will," I said.

"No, but it will. You're a good person, Chuck. You'll make it through this." Sarah took a deep breath and laid a hand on my arm.

Unfortunately, the shirt I'd picked hid the bandage too well. The instant she touched my arm, the whole thing seemed to shoot up in flame, throbbing twice to remind me that the gash was there. I hissed.

Sarah yanked her hand back as if I had burned her. "What? What is it?"

"Nothing. Ah—"

"You're hurt!" Sarah's look wasn't so much worried as accusing now. "When did you get hurt? How?"

"It's nothing. Just, ah, a little bullet."

"What? You got shot? I thought you said you weren't working a case!"

"Well, technically..." Unable to meet her furious gaze all of a sudden, I looked away. The windows of the drugstore were surprisingly clean, even for this part of town. I could see all the way through to the cigarette advertisements in the back. "I'm not...exactly getting...paid..."

Hold it a second.

My brow furrowed. Had I read that right?

"Chuck, it's very noble and all to take on pro bono work, but you really should be more worried about things like getting _shot _in the—what is it?"

Though I looked at her, quickly, it was too late. The damage had been done. My stomach sank as Sarah's face fell. Instead of setting in on me again, however, she simply looked tired for a moment. "It figures."

"No, Sarah, it's not like that—"

"The case will always come first, won't it? Don't get yourself killed. And have a nice life, Chuck." This time, Sarah turned on her heel and stalked away, and I knew from the fact that her spine was ramrod straight and her shoulders were rigid that, were she interested in continuing our friendship, I would be in the doghouse for a good long while. If I could even find her again.

"Sarah, wait!"

There wasn't even a hitch in her stride.

I thought about it for a second, gave up dignity completely, and took off after her. "Listen, I'm sorry. I really am. It's just that there's this thing going down..."

She kept walking. "A thing that you got shot over, that you're not even getting paid for."

Put that way...I winced. "Sort of. There was an encounter with a dirty Fed, but it's just a ricochet, I promise. And I wasn't ignoring you, really. I just saw something that I thought—"

"You know what, Chuck?" Sarah did stop now, once again so fast that I nearly tripped. "You say you need me, but I don't think you really do."

"What? Of course I—"

"You need a secretary, and you can find one of those in the book. You don't need me. You never did." And with that, Sarah left. This time, I didn't chase her; I knew the look on her face far too well to dare, even though she was completely and totally wrong. With all of this Bryce Larkin malarkey going down in Chicago, I didn't think I'd ever needed her steadying input more.

But when a woman gives you _that _look, you listen.

I don't know how long I stood there after she left. Maybe a minute, maybe twenty. My arm hurt, but not as bad as my chest, in that moment. "Right," I said, wishing again I had my hat to worry with my fingers. "So that's that."

It took the glares of pedestrians streaming around me on the sidewalk to remind me where I was. With a sigh, I turned and went into the drugstore. The boy working the counter gave me a strange look, and I wondered what he'd heard of my conversation with Sarah. But he didn't say anything until I asked him for the papers on the Hawthorne Race Course. Lester had said he had an inside man with a tip on a hot pony: Lady in Red. Which was, I had thought, a very strange name for a horse.

Seeing no Lady in Red on the Hawthorne sheet, it appeared the horse trainers agreed with me, so I dug around in my pocket and came up with a few coins. "I'll take a pack of those," I told the shopboy, nodding at the cigarettes.

Lady in Red might be an absurd name for a horse, but it was apparently a classy name for a brand of cigarettes. Lady's cigarettes, at that.

Indeed, the shopboy gave me a look. "Seriously, mister?"

"You got a problem with it?"

"No, sir. Not at all." I slipped the cigarettes into my pocket and made my way outside, glancing in the direction Sarah had gone. It was foolish. She hadn't come back a month ago, she wouldn't come back now.

Once I was far enough away from the drugstore, I pulled the cigarettes out and examined every inch of that packaging and every single one of the cigarettes inside, rolled much more tightly and thinner than normal cigarettes. I'd never picked up the habit in my days in the Air Corps, but most of my fellow soldiers had smoked, so I'd always kept a couple on me, just to share.

There was absolutely nothing interesting about these.

Why would Lester give me that tip when it seemed far more incompetent than usual for him? Of course, perhaps I shouldn't be surprised. Lester's partner in crime's advice had led to me running from a Fed and getting shot in the arm, which, thanks to the fact that Sarah had called attention to the wound, now burned. A dead end was to be expected.

Frustrated, I made my way back to Morgan's diner and my abandoned hat. "Does your ma still smoke?" I asked as I sat down across from him.

He gave me a puzzled look. "Of course. Why?"

"Consider these a gift." I tossed the packet on the table.

"Uh, I'll pass them on." Morgan's brow furrowed. "No luck with Sarah?"

"No, and I still can't figure out what I said to set her off, either. But suffice it to say, she is not happy with all things Carmichael." Though my eggs were long cold by now, I dug in with a gusto. "All things considered, it could have gone worse, but I don't see how."

"You'll work it out," Morgan said, and picked up the cigarettes. He made a noise in the back of his throat, a "heh" sound that made me look up. "Wow. I haven't seen these around much anymore. I thought the Monkey was the only place that sold them."

"We sell those at the Monkey?"

Morgan gave me a surprised look. "We?"

"I meant they. They sell those at the Monkey?"

"Yeah, Miss Wu likes 'em."

If Lester was trying to give me a tip, I realized, where better to hide it than the Monkey? I picked up my hat and scrambled for the edge of the booth. "I've got to go. Do you think you could..." I gestured helplessly at the plate I'd cleaned.

"No, I've got it."

"Thank you. I'll pay you back."

"No hurry. See you around, Chuck."

And then I was racing back across town, trying to figure out who would possibly want to leave me a tip at the Broken Monkey, or why they would have told _Lester__,_ of all people. Thanks to Morgan picking up the tab, I had just enough to buy the last packet of Lady in Red from Bunny, who looked happy to get the patronage.

The answer was written in ink on the first cigarette. It was like they weren't even trying.

* * *

**mxpw's A/N the Second:** So was it worth the wait, you guys? You can be honest, it was totally worth the wait, wasn't it? I bet that went exactly how you expected it to go. You and Chuck both. Speaking of what Chuck expected, let's take a look at what's in store next for our intrepid detective.

_"Nobody important, I assure you. Not to me." Her eyes flashed and danced with life, and I pitied any man who truly did sit across her during a hand of poker. "But he's important to some, and that's all you need to know about it."_

_"Bryce wasn't the only one I was askin' about," I said, and I kept my voice smooth, like vanilla. It was a trick I'd seen Anna use a time or two at the Broken Monkey, when a couple of japes wouldn't pay their tab. It probably worked better for her than it did for me, though Carina did shrug, daintily, as if imparting the information to me wasn't any skin off of her nose._

_"I guess you could say I work for some old friends of yours, Mr. Carmichael," she said._

_I quickly racked my brain for who she might mean. The only person I'd ever worked a case with was Sarah, and she hardly ever left the office. My confusion must have shown on my face for Carina chuckled. "From the War, Mr. Carmichael."_


	7. At the Sheridan Hotel

******Frea's A/N the First**: Still in Croatia, but I'm coming home tomorrow, and I look forward to seeing your smiling faces again! Hopefully we've all healed up somewhat emotionally from that punch Sarah left. Ouch, Sarah. What the hell? Oh, wait, there's more to come? Fantastic. Thanks to everybody that's reviewed, thanks to my intimidating and frighteningly talented cowriter the great **mxpw**, annnnnd I have to stop and take a minute to thank our beta readers. I mean, not only are they marvelous people with dry wit sharper than Andúril, but their fashion sense is stunning, they can open coconuts with their teeth, and **quistie64** once punched me in the face. It was awesome. Anyway, enjoy the chapter!

**mxpw's A/N the First:** Well, Chapter 6 was the second least reviewed chapter. I can say in all honesty I wasn't expecting that, especially after so many people mentioned Sarah in their earlier reviews. I can only assume you guys aren't actually interested in Sarah being part of the story. Good news, then! You all should really like this chapter. :)

* * *

**At the Sheridan Hotel**

Sitting in a dark hotel room all alone made me feel like the hero of one of the dime novels I'd read growing up, but I didn't want to leave the lights on and let Carina Miller know something fishy was up. I wanted the element of surprise, to confuse her and see if any part of her story would shake loose.

Thankfully, waiting gave me time to think. Not much of what I had learned over the last twenty-four hours made sense. There was still too much I didn't know, and too many people with shifting motives. But one thing I did know: Miss Georgia Peach wasn't who she said she was. So I waited with my legs propped up on the desk in her hotel room.

I left my suit coat open and my pistol in easy reach. I didn't much relish the thought of drawing on Miss Miller, but growing up around Ellie had been proof enough that women were just as dangerous as men. I wasn't about to take an early dirt nap because I'd underestimated a dame. Searching and scanning the room had turned up nothing. I was either very wrong, and Miss Carina Miller was exactly who she claimed to be, or she was very, very good at keeping secrets.

My instincts said it was the latter, but I'd been wrong before. For one thing, I never thought Sarah would leave. And maybe I thought that if I saw her again, I could convince her to come back, rather than making it even worse.

The scrape of a key in the door broke my reverie. My hand drifted to my hip as the door slowly opened. All I could see was the square of light cast from the hallway: the doorway was empty.

Warily, I sat up, and nearly fell right back on my rear end when a body appeared suddenly in the doorway, silhouetted by the hall light. In strode Carina Miller in all of her Southern Belle glory. Her eyes cut to me right away as she reached over and turned on the lights. Then she stood there, hands on her hips, and gave me an unimpressed look very similar to one I had seen on Sarah's face many times before. It was more than a little unnerving.

"Oh, it's just you," she said. "I was worried you might be somebody dangerous."

I wanted to take offense, but considering that she had managed to get the drop on me even with all of my careful planning, I merely tried to regain some of my dignity. "We need to talk, Miss Miller."

Carina pulled off her overcoat to reveal a dress very similar to the one she had worn the day before. This one was a deep, rich crimson that spoke of sultry nights rather than cotton fields and old money. "It took you long enough to find me, Mr. Carmichael."

Her syrupy sweet accent had disappeared. "You're not really from South Carolina are you?"

Carina batted her eyelashes and a slow smile grew, the kind of smile that could make a man forget his own name if he wasn't careful. "Why, Mr. Carmichael, I have no idea what you mean."

I shook my head at the reappearance of the accent and let out a little chuckle. I had no idea who Carina Miller really was or what was going on, but I couldn't help but admire the act. That didn't mean I appreciated being lied to, however. "I'd have appreciated the truth from the start. There was no need for the dog and pony show."

"The truth is boring," Carina said. "And maybe I wanted to see what you could figure out on your own. To see if you were worth all the trouble like she claimed."

I filed this away. This was the second time that Carina had mentioned another woman. Was this part of her act or did I really have a mysterious benefactor out there sending damsels in distress my way? Maybe they knew how much of a soft touch I was for a good sob story. Or maybe they just thought I was an easy mark.

"Why am I here, Miss Miller?" I asked.

Carina sat down on the edge of her bed, posture perfect, one impossibly long leg crossed over the other, just like she had in my office, the very picture of propriety and class. I felt like such a mope sitting across from her. "I don't know, Mr. Carmichael, you tell me."

I swung my legs back up onto the desk. I watched with some satisfaction as her eyes narrowed. "Wasn't this what you wanted?"

"What I wanted?"

"When you left me that clue at the Broken Monkey? And I guess I have you to thank for the docks?" It had been dark, and the gunman had been running, but I had been sure it was a man. But if it was Carina who had sent me on the wild goose chase in the first place, maybe I had been wrong. Maybe the person who had saved me was the same doll sitting in front of me. If so, I owed her my thanks. Maybe she'd let me buy her a drink.

"I—I have no idea what you're talking about."

I frowned and felt my frustration mount once again. This was getting too much. It was bad enough having Karpazzo's goons lean on me, and a crazy Hooverman gunning for me, I didn't want to deal with even more of Carina Miller's lies. She was involved with everything up to her incredibly graceful neck and I wanted some answers.

"Come on, Miss Miller, stop with the lies, please. We both know you're not who you say you are, so let's just put all our cards on the table."

"Fine," Carina said, her voice clipped. "But I didn't leave you anything at the—what was it?—the Broken Monkey." She leaned forward, and I narrowed my eyes. "I thought you were here to tell me you were on the case."

"Why do you want me to take this case, Miss Miller, if that is even your name?"

"It'll do." Carina's lips curved, but there wasn't a whole hell of a lot of humor to the look. No, it was a viper's smile, a snake who knows she's slithered all the way around her prey. Problem was, I didn't much savor the feeling of being prey. "And I already told you why I wanted you to take this case. You're not a very good detective, are you, Mr. Carmichael?"

"Then it's a good thing you aren't paying me." I tapped a finger on my hip, thinking it over some. Carina's eyes cut to my gun, which I'd left in plain sight, and I realized the move could be seen as threatening. The instinct to apologize arose; I swallowed it back. "Be straight with me. Who are you, and what do you want with Bryce Larkin? Who is he to you?"

"Nobody important, I assure you. Not to me." Her eyes flashed and danced with life, and I pitied any man who truly did sit across her during a hand of poker. "But he's important to some, and that's all you need to know about it."

"Bryce wasn't the only one I was askin' about," I said, and I kept my voice smooth, like vanilla. It was a trick I'd seen Anna use a time or two at the Broken Monkey, when a couple of japes wouldn't pay their tab. It probably worked better for her than it did for me, though Carina did shrug, daintily, as if imparting the information to me wasn't any skin off of her nose.

"I guess you could say I work for some old friends of yours, Mr. Carmichael," she said.

I quickly racked my brain for who she might mean. The only person I'd ever worked a case with was Sarah, and she hardly ever left the office. My confusion must have shown on my face for Carina chuckled. "From the War, Mr. Carmichael."

My eyes widened and I sat up straight in shock. "You're one of Wild Bill's men? Er, women?" I couldn't believe it. What did the OSS—well, I guess they were the CIA now—want with me? Why were they interested in Bryce Larkin? Things were really starting to feel like I was in over my head with this case.

Some might call me lucky, though I wouldn't necessarily agree. In '42, I took shrapnel to the leg and spent a couple of months recovering in the company of some very fine English nurses (who believed that tea should be strong enough to get up and dance, and that biscuits should be weak and tasteless). It wasn't enough to write me a ticket out of the War, though. Instead, Wild Bill and his boys at the OSS took an interest in my brain and instead of heading back to Chicago with a hitch in my step and a chip on my shoulder, they'd shipped me off to Area C for communications training. And then it was back to England for more strong tea and tasteless cookies when I wasn't busy decrypting enemy communications.

I'd even met Wild Bill once or twice, but I had definitely never met any operatives in the same ballpark as one Miss Carina Miller.

"Why, yes," she said, chuckling a little at my shock. "Don't tell me you believe the objective was fulfilled just because the War's over, Mr. Carmichael—can I call you Chuck? I feel like we're going to be such good friends."

"Lady, I pick my friends a lot more carefully than you think I do."

"Yes. At the…Broken Monkey." She sniffed a little and dug in her clutch. "Mind if I smoke?"

"As long as it's not a Lady in Red, knock yourself out."

"I am going to assume that means something to you, and move on. Bryce Larkin is one of, as you call us, Wild Bill's boys."

He was? What in Sam Hill did an operative of the former Office of Strategic Services have to do with a bunch of Chicago lowlifes and a crooked Fed?

"Or he was. He took something. Something very valuable, and we'd like it back."

I scratched the back of my neck as I thought it over. It made sense. As pretty as he was, I couldn't see Bryce Larkin himself creating such a demand, and certainly not with somebody like the Bishop, who had his own legion of pretty boys. But if he had the inside track on whatever it was Carina was after, I could see how that might be worth the thousands of bones the Bishop was willing to drop for his location.

"What is it?" I asked. "What did he take?"

Carina clucked her tongue in obvious disapproval. "Now, now, Chuck, you know better than to ask a question like that. I've only told you as much as I have because you used to be one of us." There was a twinkle in Carina's eye that made me nervous. "And because of your reputation."

"Look, if you want my help, you need to tell me everything. I've been working on incomplete information since this case started and it almost got me killed last night. I don't relish the thought of that happening. I'm not a cat—I don't have nine lives."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Chuck, I really am, but that is the nature of our business, is it not?" Carina took a long drag off her cigarette and I watched the smoke unfurl from her mouth. "I will give you what information I can, but I'm afraid the particulars of the device Larkin took must remain a mystery for now."

"That's not going to fly, toots."

"My heart breaks for you, it really does." Carina rolled her eyes, the utter portrait of a complete lack of sympathy. When she blew out a cloud of smoke, it seemed to give her a hazy aura.

I was barking up the wrong tree if I was expecting this dame to tell me anything. Frankly, I'd had enough to give me permanent heartburn in the past twenty-four hours, and that wasn't even counting the colossal louse I'd made of myself in front of Sarah that morning. But a private detective's not without resources, even if his pockets seem empty of all tricks.

So I crossed my feet at the ankles again and leaned back, pulling my hat off my head and toying absently with the brim. Carina watched the movements through the smoke, seemingly amused. "Fine, if you're not going to tell me about this device, tell me about Shaw."

Her head tilted slightly in pique. "I'm afraid I'm not familiar with this Shaw."

"He wanted to make my acquaintance real bad, if you catch my drift. He's one of Hoover's men. What's he doing in Chicago and why does he want to arrest me?"

"I don't know." The frown on Carina's face looked believable. That wasn't actually encouraging. "I've not heard anything about any G-men in town, but Hoover always plays things close to the vest."

Carina rose from the bed and walked over to her desk; she ground out her cigarette in an ashtray. "I'll see what I can find out. This is my case, after all."

"Our case," I said.

"Does that mean you're going to help me?"

"For now," I said, which was an impulsive decision at best and at worst would get me killed. Carina's eyes lit up briefly, which wasn't very reassuring. "But this is a two-way street, sister. No more lies and no more games. You don't want to tell me about the device, fine, I probably don't want to know anyway. But anything else, you share with me, got it?"

"She always said you had a thing for honesty," Carina said.

"All right, I give, lady. Who are you—"

I didn't get a good chance to ask about the elusive female Carina kept referencing—another of Wild Bill's people?—because I was cut off by the sound of a body hitting the door. Trust me, it's not a sound you can mistake for much else.

In an instant, I'd pulled my M1911 out of its holster. Carina reacted just as quickly, like lightning she had a knife in one hand and a revolver in the other. The knife was no dainty lady's knife, either.

She looked at me, tilting her head slightly in invitation. I know I'm supposed to be a gentleman, but I let her take this one. It wasn't my hotel room people were throwing bodies at, after all. I covered her back as she crept to the door, stabbing the knife into the wall to hold it while she put her hand on the knob. I could see her counting down from three with her eyes before she yanked open the door, gun whipping up to face whatever would-be attackers waited in the hallway.

There were none. Instead, a man in a suit fell through the door, flopping around a bit like a landed fish in the entryway. His suit was nicely cut, his hat unremarkable. Actually, nothing about him would have been worth remarking about, really, had it not been for the fact that he was trussed up like a prize turkey, with a gag stuffed between his fat lips.

Carina peered out into the hallway. "Nobody there," she said.

I stared down at the man on the floor, who was gazing at the both of us in panic. "Huh," I said. "Looks like she left me another present."

"She left you…a present?"

"My guardian angel. Sometimes she leaves me presents, helps me out of a jam."

"Your—guardian angel? Who is she?"

"I have no idea."

"So you're telling me you have a secret admirer that sometimes leaves you trussed up thugs?"

I grinned and pulled the man farther into Carina's hotel room. It was obvious he'd been eavesdropping on us. She wouldn't have intervened if he wasn't. "Yeah, beautiful, ain't she?"

Carina just looked perplexed, but the professional, distant mask quickly slipped back into place. She shut the door to her room and peered down at the tied up man. She reached behind her and pulled the knife out of the wall, the light reflecting off the blade.

"Seems a shame to let such a thoughtful gift go to waste, don't you think, Mr. Carmichael?"

* * *

**mxpw's A/N the Second:** Alas, this is probably the last time I will be posting the chapters, as **Frea** should be back from her trip by the time the next chapter goes up. So it's been fun, everybody. I know you'll miss me. Please note that I don't think we'll be posting three times a week any longer, either. We really only posted as fast as we did so that we could get to Sarah's appearance as soon as we could. Likely future posting days will be Monday and Wednesday/Thursday, so keep a look out! I think it's only fitting I leave you with this:

_"Always knew that mouth of yours would get you in trouble one day, Carmichael," Colt said in his deep basso._

_"Yeah, you and everybody else," I said, and tried to wrench my arms free. All I managed to do was earn a cuff upside the head from Colt and a warning not to try it again from Delgado._

_Finally, it seemed we had moved far enough down the alley, for the two men carting me around stopped. Delgado reached into my coat pocket to pull my gun free when suddenly there was a blur of darkness in the corner of my vision._

_Just like that, she was there._


	8. The Lazarus Room

**mxpw's A/N the First:** Turns out there'll be one more chapter with me at the helm. There will be no A/N from **Frea**. She has returned from her trip, and by all reports had an excellent time. However, she crashed (time zone changes are a bitch) before we could discuss plans to update the next chapter. We were probably gonna update on Thursday, but as **quistie64** is planning on updating her Homer-esque epic SOM2, I decided just to go ahead and update today. Hence no note from Frea. She'll probably be annoyed with me. I can live with that. If she were writing her own note, I'm sure she'd say something about how awesome all of you guys are, but with twice the wit and three times the horrible puns.

**mxpw's A/N the Second:** Thank you to everyone that has reviewed, reblogged, tweeted, or otherwise commented on this story. It is very gratifying to know that you all are interested and enjoying this little yarn we came up with. I know I gave you all a bit of a hard time after Chapter 6, but I really do appreciate you guys! Thank you! And a big thank you to **Steampunk Chuckster** and **quistie64** and for their help with the story.

**Frea's A/N the Only: **Ahahaha. You thought I didn't have access to my own account and couldn't come back and change it later, **mxpw**? SURPRISE. HERE I AM. Hi, everybody. I'm back from my trip and super excited that you get to read this chapter!

* * *

**The Lazarus Room**

"Don't you know it's rude to spy on a lady?" Carina asked, her voice syrupy smooth. She leaned down and brought her knife within an inch of the man's face. Fear rose in the man's eyes, but not as much as I expected, given that he was trussed up in a strange woman's hotel room. I had to figure this was not the first time he had found himself in a dangerous situation.

I reached out and put my hand on Carina's arm. She looked at me, one perfect eyebrow arching.

"Let's give the man a chance to talk before the two of you start gettin' friendly, shall we?" I asked. I didn't think Carina would actually use her knife on the man, but nothing about the sultry spy had gone as I'd anticipated so far, so it was better not to take my chances.

To my surprise, Carina shrugged and straightened. I reached down and helped the man to his feet, maneuvering him to the bed. I sat him down on it and removed the gag. I said, "Who are you? What were you doing?"

The man said nothing.

"Here, let me," Carina said, and started firing off questions in a language I didn't really understand. I did catch a couple of words, though: it was Russian. Even though the man didn't respond, I saw the look of understanding in his eyes. He knew what Carina was saying.

Carina must have seen it too, for she looked triumphant. "Knew it. Could always spot a Russian a mile away, Chuckie."

Russian? This was a new development. The Russians were after Bryce Larkin, too? The Bishop, Carina's employers, and the Feds weren't enough? What was this, a melting pot of _Find the Missing Thief_? I felt a little light-headed and a lot warm. Just what had this wag stolen that was this important, anyway? It had to be made of solid gold, at the very least.

Fortunately, Carina hadn't noticed my distraction, as she was too busy watching the Russian with narrowed eyes, an intense look overtaking those pointed, pretty features. I took a deep breath and rubbed the back of my hand across my forehead. Carina continued to snap off questions in Russian, and the fellow sitting on the bed glared back in silence. It went on for some time, too fast for me to follow. Hand me a German speaker, and I can tell you where he came from down to the neighborhood. But when the OSS had switched its focus from Germany to Russia at the end of the war, I'd seen the writing on the wall, and I'd split. So I could only stand there uselessly, watching the tennis match of silence and speech go on.

A few more threatening gestures with Carina's knife and a nasty look that made even me shy back later, the man decided he valued his life and started talking. I had no idea what Carina had said to get the other man to talk, and I got the feeling I was better off that way. Judging from the pale sweat that had started to spring up at the man's temples and all.

When the flood of Russian stopped, Carina waved the knife in the man's face. "Da?" she asked.

"Da," the man said.

Carina turned that cat's smile on me, and the room heated up a bit. I tugged at my tie, which suddenly felt a great deal more constricting. "Good news, Chuck," she said. "He's only here to follow you."

The man said something. Carina flicked a glance at him and looked at me again as she amended, "Right. He's only here to follow you and then probably kill you."

I felt light-headed again. "How is that good news?"

"Because he was going to wait until after you had found what you were looking for, silly."

"You'll have to forgive me if I don't find that very comforting, Miss Miller!"

"Oh, all right, take it as you will. I'm simply pleased he doesn't seem to know anything about me and my mission here."

"So really it's just good news for you."

"Looks like it," Carina said, and she didn't look the slightest bit ashamed. It seemed pretty typical of my interactions with her so far. She slid her knife delicately back into the folds of her dress. "He didn't tell me much, unfortunately. Just that he had been told to follow you and report back on your activities. If you found the device, he was supposed to take it from you. I inferred the killing part."

"Lovely. Until a few minutes ago, I had no idea I was even looking for a machine," I said, and yanked my hat off my head. I worried it with my hands and put it back on. "What are we gonna do with him?"

"He didn't know about me before, but he does now. I can't let him report back to his superiors."

"What exactly are you suggesting?"

"Come now, Mr. Carmichael, this is Chicago. I don't have to tell you what happens to rats in this town."

She really didn't. I'd seen enough of the Bishop's handiwork, and heard Casey's stories besides, to know that the Chicago way of dealing with things often meant a one-way ticket to Lake Michigan. And they didn't take the ride for the ambiance.

That wasn't me, though. I knew some private dicks that would be more than happy to look the other way while some mook got fitted with concrete loafers, so long as the price was right, but I had never been one of them. I'd seen more than my fair share of death during the War, thank you very much, and I wasn't much interested in seeing any more.

"We're not killing him," I said.

"We can't let him go. He knows too much about me."

"That's tough, toots, but I've got a strict no-killing policy, even for the Russians."

Carina's eyes flashed. I got the sense that she wasn't used to being disobeyed or argued with, but I hadn't survived in this game as long as I had by having a soft spine. "Then what do you propose we do with him, Mr. Carmichael?"

"Maybe I know a copper down at the 42nd that would happily take this collar off our hands. Chances are, men of this man's ilk have a rap sheet."

"You want to hand this fine gentleman to a cop." Carina's look dripped with pure skepticism.

"We can trust him, okay? I've worked with him before. He's a friend, but don't tell him I said so. It puts him off his lunch. But either way, he'll find some way to make sure this guy doesn't see the light of day for a long time."

Carina surprised me by letting out a light chuckle. She swept her hair back from her forehead with one daintily gloved hand. "I should have known this would happen from everything she said about you. Very well, Mr. Carmichael. We'll play this fiddle your way this time, but when it comes time to pay the piper, it's on your head, not mine."

I didn't even bother following up on the mystery woman comment this time. It was obvious that Carina wasn't going to disclose who she was talking about. There were more important matters to deal with anyway.

"Thanks, great, I'll call him right now." I walked over to the phone on her desk and dialed the precinct's number. It was a harried conversation, with a lot of grousing from Casey, and a lot of pleading from me. After longer than I would have liked—mainly because of the impatient look on Carina's face—Casey finally agreed to come pick up the Russian spy. All I felt was relief. "He's agreed. He said he'll be here in half an hour."

Carina grumbled, but she eventually nodded and sat down in the chair behind her desk. "Now that we've got that taken care of, we need to talk about what we're going to do from here."

I really didn't have the first clue. After having my teakettle rattled good and hard by Agent Shaw at the docks, I was in over my head and I knew it. A plan started to form, and immediately I knew it had to be about the stupidest plan I'd ever come up with. But if there was anybody in Chicago that could give me the kind of answers about what was really going on in my town, it was going to be Vincent "The Bishop" Karpazzo.

I didn't see much of a choice. I knew he didn't know where Bryce was—he wouldn't be throwing around so much dough if he did—but there was no way the Russians were operating in his backyard without at least having some idea of what was going on. And if he knew that much, then maybe he could tell me more about who Bryce Larkin really was and what it was everybody was looking for. I certainly wasn't going to get that information from Carina.

"I've got a few contacts that I could feel out and see what they know."

"Same," Carina said, and I almost smirked as I saw her rearrange the desk back to the way it had been before I had commandeered it for my own. "And I'll do one better. I'll see what I can find out about this G-man giving you trouble."

"Why?" I asked, instantly suspicious. Carina's type wasn't the helpful sort, if you catch my drift.

She smirked. "Maybe I just like your face."

That clearly wasn't it.

"And maybe it's the fact that if the Russians are involved, things are a lot more complicated than I thought and we may be the only people we can trust."

I highly doubted that, but I nodded in agreement. I was surrounded by criminals, spies, and government agents, all trying to one-up me and do me in, and all I wanted was for Sarah to come back, or to maybe take a vacation. After the last few days, I could really use one.

"I'll call you in the morning and tell you what I've found. You'll do the same, right?" I didn't want to sound like I didn't trust her, but the fact of the matter was, I didn't trust her at all. We might have come to an understanding of sorts about joining forces, but it wouldn't surprise me one bit if she gladly took everything I found out and gave me back nothing in return.

"Of course, Chuck," Carina said and batted her eyelashes at me, her voice low and smooth. "You can trust me."

I snorted and adjusted my hat. I knew when I was being fed a load of bull, but it was probably the best I could hope for.

"Now if you'll excuse me, Chuck, I'd like to have a word or two alone with our new friend." Carina held up a hand. "Don't worry, I promise not to hurt him. He'll be in one piece when your pet bull shows up, but I really must insist. A lady's privilege."

_Lady, you ain't no lady,_ I wanted to say, but I'd been raised better than that. I wanted to object. From the look on the Russian's face, he wanted me to object, too. But I knew when to pick my battles, and Carina wasn't going to budge. So I just nodded my head, said, "I'll be in contact, Miss Miller," and made my way out the door.

Even though I knew she'd be long gone, I still couldn't help looking both ways down the hallway for any sign of my guardian angel. There was nothing there.

* * *

An hour later found me deep in the Bishop's territory, on the east side of town. I knew he liked to frequent a little gin joint called the Lazarus Room, so that would be my best bet for finding him. It was a conversation I didn't relish in the slightest, but sometimes a man's gotta do what he's gotta do, and right now, if I wanted to stay ahead of the Russians, I needed as much information as I could get my greedy little hands on.

The Lazarus Room appeared a small place, nestled between a fine ladies' boutique and a delicatessen. There wasn't much to it: a short bar, some stools, and several booths that lined the opposite wall. But it was richly decorated in leather and kitted up with glaringly expensive wood paneling. The colors were earthy, the glasses were shallow, and the liquor, it was said, had flowed deep and rich even during the days Prohibition had plagued our fine city. When I walked in, there weren't many clients: everybody knew you only visited the Lazarus Room if you were expressly looking for the Bishop, and only if you were fool.

I was definitely both.

Fortunately, he was there. Of course, so were Mr. Colt and Mr. Delgado. I had expected that but I still felt the familiar snakes come alive in my stomach. I was walking into the lion's den, and I had no idea if I'd ever be walking out.

To my amusement, the Bishop's henchmen looked surprised to see me. Both stood up at the same time, and I'm not ashamed to admit, I felt a small thrill of pride when both men reached inside their coats. The Bishop merely raised a hand and both men relaxed.

Vincent Karpazzo was a fairly big man, nearly as tall as I was and broad shouldered like most of the Monsters of Midway's offensive lineup. Much like the walking, talking mountain standing next to him, he appeared all muscle, which was no surprise. He'd had a reputation for getting his hands dirty when he was moving up the ranks of the Chicago underworld. His bald pate gleamed under the dim lights of the Lazarus Room, and his piercing gaze alone made my knees want to shake. It was said that the Bishop was as intelligent as he was ruthless, and I'd had just enough dealings with the man in the past to know that was true.

The Bishop didn't stand like his two lackeys had. "This is an unexpected surprise, Mr. Carmichael." He gestured at a seat across from him and I sat down. "Come to accept my offer after all?"

Any conversation with the Bishop was bound to be a minefield, so I knew I had to tread carefully.

"Like I told Frick and Frack over here yesterday, my answer is no." Perhaps I was a little more tired than I had thought. It seemed like my mouth had stopped listening to my brain.

The Bishop's lips thinned. "Then why are you here, interrupting my evening respite?"

"I have no interest in your deal, but I have one of my own. I came to see if you would like to trade." I held my breath and hoped I wasn't being too obvious about it.

"I see," the Bishop said. "Very well. Perhaps we can come to some kind of arrangement."

I placed both hands on my thighs. I had to resist the urge to move my hand closer to my gun, as that would surely earn me a jaunt to the pearly gates. "Great, that's great." I could feel a ramble coming on and took a breath to stop it. I flashed him a quick grin. "So why don't you tell me what you know and I'll fill in the blanks for you, gratis?"

The Bishop laughed, loud, almost like a bark. It was disconcerting, to say the least, but not as disconcerting as the way he abruptly stopped. "You are a funny man, Mr. Carmichael. That's why I like you."

"Uh, thanks?"

"But funny only gets you so far in this life."

"You know, Bishop, my mother said the same thing. But I always told her—"

The Bishop slapped the table. "Enough. You will tell me what you know and if I think it valuable information, I may be persuaded to share as well."

"Now just a second, Bishop, that's not the kind of deal I was talking about."

The Bishop smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. Colt and Delgado took up positions behind me. "That is what I'm offering. I suggest you take it."

A smarter man than me might have chosen that moment to genuflect or even backpedal, certainly apologize at the very least. But another thing my mother had pointed out to me a couple of times was that I was Charles Carmichael, and Charles Carmichael wasn't always a smart man.

So I straightened my shoulders. "I've never reacted well to bullies before," I said.

Karpazzo's eyes narrowed. "And I've never reacted well to people who waste my time, Mr. Carmichael."

"All I want to know is if you know what device Bryce Larkin has that's so important. Last I heard, your trade wasn't machinery."

The Bishop's eyes narrowed slightly. "It's always been a disappointment to me that you've never agreed to work for me, Carmichael. I imagine we could have formed quite the lucrative partnership."

"Again, thanks?"

The Bishop drank from the tumbler by his hand. "I have to say, I'm impressed. Quite impressed, even. Not one of the many gumshoes that I have contracted with over the last few days has even discovered that much." He nodded and both Colt and Delgado grabbed my arms.

"Hey," I said, alarm striking.

"You've quite the brain, Carmichael. And as much as I would prefer to let you work and see what you discover with that big brain of yours, I'm afraid that certain," the Bishop paused, obviously seeking the proper word, which told me this was important, "outside interests are pressuring me for results and I don't have time to deal with impudent young gnats that show up on my doorstep demanding answers. I simply can't wait for this game to continue."

The henchmen had grips like steel infused with iron, clamping around my arms. I tried to struggle free and reach my gun, but all I could do was jerk there in their grip like a puppet. There was no way I'd break free from Delgado, let alone Colt, from my current position. "Now hold on, Bishop, I don't know anything," I said, my voice beginning to rise in panic. This was _not _how this was supposed to go. "That's why I'm here!"

He ignored me. "Don't do it here. Take him out back and find out everything he knows."

The two men literally dragged me toward a side door of the Lazarus Room. It wasn't the first time I'd been thrown out of a place like this, but this time, I knew I was doomed. Fear gnawed at my innards. Even if the goons didn't kill me after they'd beaten the information they thought I had—but didn't—out of me, I knew I was not going to enjoy what was about to happen.

How did I always get myself into these kinds of situations? Was I just born special?

The air was crisp when we got outside. I knew I had to do something, anything, to try and get free. They had yet to disarm me, but their hold on my arms was so strong that there was no way I could reach my gun. If only I could somehow get my arm free long enough to get to my gun, I might have a chance. Maybe. None of the hand-to-hand training the Army had been kind enough to bestow on me at Camp Lehigh was floating to the surface.

They dragged me down the alley, though I had no idea why. It wasn't like some copper was going to come walking the beat anywhere near the Lazarus Room. And given my luck, if one _did _happen to walk by, it'd be one on the Bishop's dole. He'd be paid handsomely to look the other way, and I'd still have a face full of knuckle sandwich.

"Always knew that mouth of yours would get you in trouble one day, Carmichael," Colt said in his deep basso.

"Yeah, you and everybody else," I said, and tried to wrench my arms free. All I managed to do was earn a cuff upside the head from Colt and a warning not to try it again from Delgado.

Finally, it seemed we had moved far enough down the alley, for the two men carting me around stopped. Delgado reached into my coat pocket to pull my gun free when suddenly there was a blur of darkness in the corner of my vision.

Just like that, _she _was there.

I don't know where she came from or how she knew I was in trouble, I just knew I had never been more relieved in my life to see my guardian angel. I caught just the shape of her, the smell of oranges and gardenias in spring time, and then I hit the wall. Sparks skittered at the edges of my vision.

She had gone for Delgado first, and the impact of the two of them coming together had caused me to go flying. I heard a loud grunt, heavy breathing, and the impact of flesh against flesh. I whipped around in time to watch Delgado take a wicked right hook to the face. He went spinning into his companion, and I watched as my guardian angel kicked Colt in the stomach with what seemed like all of her strength.

The blow barely seemed to affect the larger man, though it did make his bowler fall to the ground. I lunged forward and hit Colt at the knees. The man went toppling to the side and I swear it was like hitting an elephant.

"Watch out," my guardian angel said, the first time I'd ever heard her speak. I twisted onto my back in time to see that Delgado had recovered from her initial attack. He pulled a revolver from inside his coat. I closed my eyes instinctively, expecting him to fire, but he never got the chance.

There was a sickening _thunk_ sound, the kind of sound you hear when jamming a cleaver into a chunk of meat, and I opened my eyes to see a knife protruding from Delgado's chest. His eyes went wide, the whites of them stark against his face even in the darkness. Blood, I realized. That was blood leaking out of his chest, just dripping like a split bag of milk. He collapsed to the ground in a heap, right on top of me.

I scrambled away from the dying man, pushing him off of me as quickly as I could.

A loud _boom_ filled the alley and the darkened night brightened briefly. My guardian angel cried out in pain—a shot! Colt had shot her. Colt had shot my guardian angel. My friend. The woman I thought maybe I was in love with, even though I knew next to nothing about her.

I saw red. Before I knew it, I was on my feet, and watching my guardian angel save my hide over the years must have rubbed off, for I kicked him before I knew what I was doing. The revolver went flying. Colt turned toward me, ready to end me with a punch to the side, but I dodged back and jumped forward, kicking him again, this time in the face. Once. Twice. He groaned and tried to cover his face with his arms. I didn't care. I was so angry, I just kept striking him with my foot.

"Carmichael!"

I ignored whoever was calling my name. He had to pay for hurting my angel.

Something grabbed my arm and pulled. "Come, Carmichael, we must go!"

It was like coming out of a fog. Her voice pulled me back to reality until I realized I was in a dirty back alley, standing over a bleeding Mr. Colt. The angel was close, closer than she'd ever been so that I could see the domino mask over the top half of her face. What was going on? She was okay? "He shot you," I said, stupidly.

"Yes, but we must go." She jerked her covered head and tugged on my arm, trying to pull me out of the alley.

I let her and we both ran into the night.

* * *

**mxpw's A/N the Third:** Oh boy, things are really getting intense now. And we have our first sighting of this mysterious guardian angel of Chuck's. Who is she? What is she really doing following Chuck around? Are we really sure she's even a woman? I suggest continuing to read the story to find out the answers to these questions and more!

_Footsteps rang down the corridor as I closed the safe. I panicked and slammed the false floor down, kicking the rug into place before I realized that the footsteps were familiar. And then I was rushing to the door for an entirely different reason than people were trying to kill me._

_For a half second, the worry crossed my mind that the click of those distinctive heels could belong to Carina, but no, there she was, Sarah Walker. My ex-secretary and the woman who'd kept my life together for years._

_She gave the office door with its dangling knob a look. "Chuck?" she asked. "Is everything…oh, my god."_


	9. St Genesius

**Frea's A/N the First**: Aaaaand I'm officially, 100% back. I know I've missed the bulk of uploading this story because I've been away, but I do want to thank everybody who's tweeted about it or left us reviews or has generally been supportive. You've been a wonderful audience (I couldn't ask for a better one!) and the fact that you're still here speaks volumes. Especially now, when the story's about to get _really _twisty. Also, thanks to our awesome beta readers!

**mxpw's A/N the First**: Guys, I want to level with you here. There's something very important that I've been neglecting to tell you: wear sunscreen. Sunscreen is great. It saves that precious skin of yours, and it makes it so, so soft. And possibly salty, depending on the brand you use and—Frea, dammit, no more writing my author's notes for me. You make me sound creepy.

**Frea's A/N the Second: **I can't help it, Max, you're the greatest writer I've ever known and my hero.

* * *

**St. Genesius**

It took a couple of blocks for it to sink in: I was holding my guardian angel's hand.

People look at you funny when you say you've got a guardian angel. Some boys during the War, they'd talk about heavenly auras and singing, but my angel was different. When she fell to earth, it was usually to deliver a kick to the square jaw of some thug. Her heavenly light was the darkness of back alleyways and usually accompanied by the sound of fists hitting flesh. She'd saved my life a time or two (or twelve), and my hide a great deal more often than that. But apart from her elbowing me out of the way once when Sasha Banacheck wanted to show off her vintage tommy gun, my angel had never touched me.

But she gripped my hand as we legged it as fast as we could, away from the Lazarus Room. Her hand was so warm in its glove, probably just as warm as the blood dripping down her side as we hustled through the night. She never made a sound. I was the one groaning, as running and my old injury couldn't quite figure out the steps to tango together.

It took me nearly two blocks to realize we really weren't being followed. "Stop," I gasped. "Stop, you'll hurt yourself more—let me look at that—"

My angel immediately angled away from me. In the yellow wash of the street lamp, I could see that the scarf she had twisted around her head wasn't actually black, but a dark, dark red. I was more concerned with the red leaking down her side. "I won't hurt you," I said. "But you're bleeding."

She scoffed. I supposed that was fair, to think I could hurt such a talented fighter as this woman. Something about the noise triggered a thought in my head, but I brushed it aside, tugging on the woman's hand until she was in better light.

She immediately ducked her head. "How bad is it?" I asked. "How bad did he get you? I could kill him. First he threatens Ellie and Sarah, then he hurts _you_—"

"It is fine." Her voice, quiet and rich, seemed to cut through the night itself like a knife through frosting. "I am not hurt much."

"Not hurt mu—you're bleeding and…" I trailed off as something about her voice finally clicked into place, the final cog for the machine to work. "You're Russian."

"Da," she said.

My angel was Russian? She had been Russian all this time? I wasn't anti-Soviet like Morgan could be, or at least I hoped not, but the idea socked me in the jaw nonetheless. Somehow over the years my angel had followed me, I'd tried to fill in the gaps in my mind. She had brown hair, she liked funnel cakes (on account of the one time she'd had to save me at a carnival and I'd spied some powdered sugar on her sleeve), and she was a Chicago native like me, just trying to put down some of the ilk that polluted the streets.

A Russian?

"Is that…problem?" the angel asked. I couldn't see her face, but I could hear the defiance in her voice. It was like she was daring me to agree.

"No," I said, and nobody was more surprised than me when I meant it. "It—it just startled me some, is all. I guess I assumed some things about you and, oh, holy smokes, you're still bleeding. Can we please get acquainted after you're all fixed up so you don't die? I'm rather fond of you. I'd like to keep you around, if I can."

"Feeling is mutual."

"Really?" I couldn't help but ask.

"No, I save your life because I am bored and there is nothing on radio."

"You make an excellent point." I reached for her side, which she was nursing, but she of course angled her body even farther away from me. "I had some medical training, for the War. You're losing a lot of blood. I can help you, if you'll let me. If you'll trust me."

I had to hold my breath because for twenty seconds, she didn't move. I couldn't see what color her hair was under the scarf, couldn't make out any of her facial features due to the mask and the fact that her face was in shadow, but somehow I knew that there was a battle going on under the surface. So I held my breath and waited, trying not to panic. She did understand that she'd been shot, didn't she? I only wanted to help her.

Finally, she looked up, but not fully. I couldn't see her eyes. "Da," she said again. "But not here. Here is not safe."

I looked around. I wasn't as familiar with this part of Chicago. "Where—" I started to say, but I turned, and she was gone. I yelped in surprise.

Immediately, she poked her head around the corner. "Are you coming or no?"

"Yes, c-coming." How had she _done_ that? I readjusted my hat and galloped after her. Did they teach everybody how to mysteriously vanish in the Soviet Union? "Where are we going?"

She said nothing.

"How is your side? I don't have any medicines or…"

Again, there was silence. It was like walking with a ghost. She was slim—svelte, actually—and with the way she hunched forward, clutching at her side, it was impossible to tell her height, but I thought she might be a couple inches shorter than either Sarah or Ellie. I couldn't see her hair or her face, but the exposed nape of her neck was truly lovely, smooth and pale so that I could see the notches at the very top of her spine.

"Where are we going?" I tried asking again.

"Quiet."

I bit my lip to keep from babbling. I'd just seen a man die. Sure, it wasn't the first time, but that didn't exactly lessen the trauma. There had been a whole stretch of my life where I'd looked at everybody around me and wondered how we would all punch our final tickets, if it would be the Germans or the Italians or even the Japanese. I certainly hadn't felt anything good or even amicable toward Delgado, but that didn't mean I'd wanted to see him shuffle off this mortal coil right in front of me, even if his two-bit rat of a partner had shot the probable love of my life. If I was shaking a little, I figured I was entitled.

She led to me to a church. There was probably some fitting symbolism to be found there, my angel dragging me to a church. I was more focused on trying to get peeks of the wound, but she managed to keep herself angled away. Maybe I wanted to get a look at her face (a gent gets curious), too. How terribly it must have hurt her, but she remained just as silent as she'd been on the walk to the church. I've never been a spiritual man, but everything felt hushed and reverent as we crept through St. Genesius's.

"How do you know about this place?" I whispered as she eased open a door, leading us into a kitchen.

She put a finger over her lips and began gathering things from the cabinets.

Something rather radical occurred to me. "You don't live here, do you?"

After all, she was my angel. Coming from a church wasn't that much of a stretch.

Her lips flattened into a thin line. "No. I do not live here."

"Let me get that," I said, nodding to the supplies in her arms. "You shouldn't be on your feet."

"I am not weak or—what is word? Fragile."

"No," I said. "But you have been shot, so please. Sit down or something, you're making me nervous."

I gathered up the gauze and bucket from her. The angel winced as she sat on the counter by the sink. "You should really see a doctor. My good friend, Ellie Bar—"

"No. No doctors."

"I'm not a surgeon. If the bullet is still in your—" I looked and could finally see where the blood was coming from. "—arm, it could get infected. I saw men lose fingers, toes, and even whole limbs to infection."

"No doctors," the angel said, and I sighed. Before I could start to gently peel the sleeve away from the wound, she grabbed a knife and stuck the tip in the ripped hole of her sleeve. "I do not require help."

"Let me do this for you." Her hand was warm under mine when I took the knife. It felt strange to be cutting cloth off, but I tried to be as gentle as possible. She winced only once, but I don't know if it was the knife slipping or simply that the bullet hurt. When I got a look, I let out a low whistle.

"What is it?"

"I don't think the bullet's still in your arm, Miss." What was her real name? It was likely something exotic like Serafina or Estella. "It looks like a graze, but a nasty gash. It'll need at least a couple of stitches."

"I can do that."

"This is your dominant hand. Just hold still while I clean this out." There wasn't any iodine, so I turned on the faucet. I tried to be careful when I poured water over her arm, but she flinched anyway. "Sorry. Begging your pardon, I don't mean to make it worse."

"It is fine."

Before I poured another round of water on the wound, I cleared my throat. When they'd fixed up my leg, back in that grimy London hospital, the nurses had always talked to keep me distracted. It still hurt, but the pain became more manageable. "Bet you're wondering why I was tweaking the Bishop's tail."

"It is stupid thing to do."

"Yes'm," I said, as I couldn't really argue. "And now he's going to be after us both something fierce. Figures, you know?" I poured the water, and this time she didn't flinch. Instead, she looked up for the first time and met my gaze. Close as I was to her, I could see her eyes. They were a bright, almost glowing green.

That was odd. I had expected blue, or brown, perhaps.

Because it felt like my stomach was threatening to flutter right out of me, I looked away. The wound _looked_ clean enough, so I pressed gauze to it in hopes of quelling the blood flow. "It's this case," I said. "Everybody's looking for this wag, and nobody's willing to tell me why. The Bishop wants him, the debutante spy wants him, even the Bureau wants him. And they're willing to kill, pay, or arrest any poor sop off the street to get him."

"Why not leave case alone?"

I shrugged and met her eye. "Guess I just like a good mystery," I said, feeling a little breathless.

She looked away first this time. "Going to the Bishop was foolish."

"I won't argue with that. But Miss Miller was chasing down a different lead, and I got mighty tired of lacking answers, so I decided to go straight to the source. Here, hold this." After putting her hand over the gauze so that she could hold it down, I turned back to the other counter. She had collected a sewing kit from the cabinet, and I could only hope that the nuns of St. Genesius kept their needles as sharp as their habits.

"We'll have to lie low," I said, focusing on threading the needle. My fingers always felt too big and awkward to sew properly, though Ellie had made sure I knew how to patch up my trousers when it was obvious my own parents weren't going to pay enough attention to pesky details like their growing son. "The Bishop will be up in arms over this, and his reach is long. Ellie's already lying low, and my friend Morgan, and I wish I could get word to my secretary—I know she's in town, she might be in danger. But you'll be careful, won't you…"

I turned to look at her and nearly jumped out of my shoes.

The counter beside the sink was empty.

"Hello?" I asked uncertainly, hoping that she'd just vanished around a corner like she had earlier. "Uh, Miss? Miss Angel?"

It was no luck. There wasn't a soul in the kitchen of that church but mine.

* * *

Angering the Bishop meant that nowhere in the city was safe, but that didn't stop me from walking all over town, looking for the woman who'd slipped so quietly out of that kitchen that I'd likely been talking to empty air the whole time. Humiliation burned like a flame in my chest, but I didn't stop looking. I'd found my angel, had touched her, knew what color her eyes were, even, and just like _that_ I'd lost her again.

It was just the way of one Charles Carmichael, evidently.

When four a.m. showed up and she didn't, I gave up and caught a cab out of the city. Ellie kept her parents' place up, though she didn't make it out of the city much. Whenever it grew too hot in Chicago, I crashed there, folding my too-long frame onto the cot in the guest bedroom because taking Ellie's bedroom felt wrong and using the master bedroom felt worse. The little wind up clock on the nightstand told me I got a solid three hours of sleep before pounding on the door drew me out of dreams of my angel and her alluring eyes.

I didn't bother with more than a loosely buttoned shirt and my trousers, though I did keep the M1911 cocked and in my hand when I went to answer. I could only hope the Bishop's men weren't calling on me for a reckoning.

It wasn't the Bishop's men, but the person on the other side of the door certainly was hopping mad enough to be.

"'Morning, Sergeant," I said, yawning widely as I let Casey in. "What drags you this far out of town?"

Instead of answering my question, he shoved a copy of the Trib in my face. "You have something to do with this, Carmichael?"

"Something to do with—" The headline caught my eye. _POLICE FIND DEAD COMMUNIST SPY IN SHERIDAN HOTEL_ scrolled across the entire top of the page. "Now, hold up."

"You called me and told me you had a tied up spy, and now he's dead and on the front page of the paper." Casey shoved past me in disgust. "You have any coffee?"

"In the cupboard. Help yourself." I was too busy gaping at the paper. The spy had most definitely been alive when I'd left him. Carina had assured me she only wanted to question him. With my eyes still on the paper, I followed Casey into the kitchen. "Do you know who killed him?"

"If I knew who killed him, do you think I'd be here, asking you? I do my job, Carmichael."

Could Carina have…? The paper said he'd been hung from the ceiling, and Carina Miller certainly didn't _look_ strong enough to haul up a full-grown man and hang him from a noose, but she also didn't look like a spy. My knees abruptly turned to gelatin; I took a seat in the tiny little breakfast nook before I could do anything embarrassing like collapse in front of Casey. It only took me a couple of minutes to read the article, but it took much longer to sink in.

"Witnesses spotted me?" I asked, looking in horror at the sentence that essentially signed my death warrant. "I got made?"

"Nobody caught your name," Casey said, putting the drip percolator on the stove. He lit the burner expertly. "But yes, I have several reports of a tall, curly-haired man going into a hotel suite several hours before a striking redhead. Making new friends, Carmichael?"

"After a fashion. It wasn't an assignation, if that's what you're asking."

Casey snorted. "You'd have to give up your precious angel for that to happen."

For a moment, I saw that same angel perfectly, like she was sitting at the table with me, her eyes so quiet and bright behind her mask. I could almost smell the faint traces of oranges and gardenia.

"Yes," I said, and it must have been a trifle too late because Casey swung around to peer at me in suspicion. "I mean, no. I'm not hung up on a fictional creature, Sergeant. That would be ridiculous. But the redhead, I told you about her. She was looking for that Larkin fellow. We talked to the spy—this Anton Sarkoloff—but I swear to you, Casey, he was alive when I left."

"I believe you," Casey said, returning his glare to the percolator. "But it's not without its problems. How likely's it that your _client_ might've offed the Russian?"

I frowned. "About thirty percent? I don't trust her, but she swore she wouldn't kill him."

"Where is she now?"

"We didn't exactly pull out our social calendars and compare them. The last time I found her, it was because of a clue left for me on cigarettes. I imagine she's gone to ground now. Corpses tend to spook you some."

"I'd like to get my hands on her, if I can."

"Get in line," I said, staring at the picture of police carrying a blanket-covered stretcher out of the Sheridan's back door. "You might believe me, Sergeant, but what about the other cops? Somebody's bound to put it together that you got a call over a dead Russian, and you happen to sometimes collaborate with a tall, curly-haired detective."

Casey inclined his head as he poured two mugs of fresh drip coffee. "We've got time."

"How much time?"

"A day, maybe a day and a half, and then the city comes down on both of our heads, Carmichael. Whatever this is you're mixed up in, you'd better solve it fast."

I looked at the coffee and wanted to sigh. "Yes, I'm rather getting that feeling as well."

* * *

A smarter man than me would have started running, would've hopped a train to Kansas City or Philadelphia, but Chicago's always been my home. Even when I was in England, decoding messages for the OSS, I dreamed of the skyline, as familiar to me as the back of my hand. I thought of the brackish, icy waters of the Lake, of the icier wind that could cut a man to the bone even in twelve layers.

I didn't run. I was too angry. How dare these people bring this trouble to _my_ town? The proverbial cat had left the dead mouse on my doorstep, and it infuriated me. My friends were in hiding because of it, my angel had been shot, and I'd been damn near arrested and shot myself. So it was with anger and not fear that I caught the train back into the city, slouching with the bums who lollygagged the day away in the alley across from my building. Not a single Bishop stoolie came in or out in the entire time I watched. Apparently, they thought I wasn't stupid enough to return to my home turf. That was foolish on their parts: I could really be that idiotic.

I heard Sarah's admonitions, Morgan's protests, and even the angel's assertions of my idiocy as I crept up the backstairs to my office. The door was still ajar, the knob dangling pitifully. Inside, however, the chaos from the day before had become an actual tornado of destruction. My office chair had been overturned, my lamp bulbs smashed and the shades slashed. The drawers to the filing cabinets leaned out like drunks, shed of their innards so that paper coated the floor like a second, messier, inkier carpet.

"Huh," I said, staring at the carnage.

I couldn't see any point in wasting time. For all I knew, the Bishop had somebody watching my office. So I waded through the dreck, kicking aside file folders and receipts and various sundry items. There, in the center of the floor, rested my shabby rug, picked up at some market when I'd first started out. I'd chosen it because it was so ugly it offended the eye, and for some reason, the bad guys never thought to look beneath it. So I pried it up to get to the false floor I'd built, and the safe underneath.

I didn't have that many valuables, so the safe was mostly for something necessary for every private eye in Chicago these days: extra firepower. The M1911 was my old service weapon from the War, of course, but I knew it wouldn't be enough. It pained me to ignore the Ithaca 37 I'd picked up years ago, but I knew it wouldn't exactly be inconspicuous when walking the streets, even in Chicago. Instead I picked up my S&W 27, a gift a client had given me soon after I'd first started, a reward for finding some stolen family heirlooms. I kept the M1911 in my shoulder holster, as my S&W 27 fit better at my hip. Extra ammunition was loaded quickly into the pockets of my coat, and I strapped my old service knife to my ankle for good measure.

Footsteps rang down the corridor as I closed the safe. I panicked and slammed the false floor down, kicking the rug into place before I realized that the footsteps were familiar. And then I was rushing to the door for an entirely different reason than people were trying to kill me.

For a half second, the worry crossed my mind that the click of those distinctive heels could belong to Carina, but no, there she was, Sarah Walker. My ex-secretary and the woman who'd kept my life together for years.

She gave the office door with its dangling knob a look. "Chuck?" she asked. "Is everything…oh, my god."

I pulled my hat off my head to pass it from hand to hand. Why was I nervous? This was Sarah, who'd worked with me day in and day out, who'd taken all of my calls and sorted out all of my cases. She'd always been that stunningly pretty, which had left me tongue-tied in the beginning before the angel started showing up to save my bacon. "Uh, my office got tossed," I said, intelligently.

Real worry flashed across her face before her lips curled slightly at the edges. "However can you tell?"

Immediately, I felt the nerves deflate a little. This was still Sarah, after all. "Oh, come now, that's hardly fair. It's a little messier than usual, wouldn't you say?"

"Mm, maybe. Are you all right?"

"I wasn't here, and my locksmith's out of town. I'll be fine."

"Oh." Sarah took a deep breath, smoothing out the wrist of her sleeve as she did so. She was dressed smartly, I realized, in a three-button traveling coat and matching skirt. "Chuck, I…I wanted to apologize. It occurred to me after we parted ways yesterday that perhaps I wasn't fair to you, storming off like that."

I gave her my best sheepish grin. "I just thought it was that the lamp had a curfew."

"That the lamp…oh! The lamp. Yes. That." Sarah gave sort of a nervous laugh. "I wanted to make sure things were okay between us."

"Things will always be okay between us," I said, which was the Gospel truth in my book.

Sarah's smile seemed a little sad, almost. "Thank you. You're one of the good ones, Chuck. You'll stay out of trouble, won't you?"

I squinted at her a bit as I put my hat back on. "If you don't mind me saying so, this feels something like a good-bye."

"It is." Sarah reached into her purse and pulled out an envelope, which she handed to me.

I thumbed it open and frowned. "This is a bus ticket to Detroit. Who's going to Detroit?"

"I am, Chuck. I've decided to move on with my life, and it wasn't fair that you didn't know where I was." Sarah took a deep breath. "You…could come, you know. It looks like it's getting troublesome, Chuck."

For a moment, I was tempted. The minute Sarah had walked into my office looking for a job that first day, I felt like part of my life had finally made sense. Missing her these past few weeks had hurt worse than heartburn. But Chicago was my town. "Troublesome? What makes you say that?"

Sarah simply looked first at me, and then at my office. I had to concede the point with a nod.

"Chuck, you keep going like this, you're going to end up in the Lake. I don't want that for you."

"I've got somebody watching out for me, I'll be fine," I said, though I had no idea if that was true. I'd never been involved with killing one of the Bishop's men before. There weren't too many ways out of this one unless the Bishop ended up mysteriously dead. "Chicago's my home, Sarah. I can't leave it. But you deserve to be happy. So, you know, go to Detroit, find your happiness. You'll write, won't you? I promise to write back."

Sarah didn't answer right away. Instead, she searched my face and it struck me that her eyes were so impossibly, wonderfully blue. I'd known that, of course, but in that moment, they seemed to overtake her whole face, so that it was impossible for me to look away. "All right, Chuck," she said. "If you say so."

She leaned forward, and for one heart-stopping and intense second, I thought she was going to kiss me, and my palms went damp in anticipation. But she only laid her lips against my cheek for a second. It was simultaneously too short and long enough to make me grateful I'd taken the time to shave off my whiskers before leaving the house that morning.

My throat felt oddly dry when I said, "I wish you the best in Detroit."

"Do me a favor and stay alive," she replied, and turned on her heel. I watched her go, slipping out of my life for the second time in the same number of days. This time, it felt infinitely more permanent, and like a part of me was walking out that door right alongside with her. It made my chest ache, so I pushed it down and strode off in the opposite direction.

After the couple of days I'd had, I really needed a drink.

* * *

**Frea's A/N the Second: **Oh, god, she's leaving again. Sarah! Noooooooo!

Here's your preview for what's coming on Thursday:

_"Guess I'll see myself out."_

_"Don't get dead, kid."_

_"Thanks for the drink." After I slammed back the rest of the drink, I picked up my coat and put it on. In the corner of my eye, I saw something white flutter out of the pocket. That was strange. I kept my papers in the pockets of my trousers. Coat pockets were for gloves and sandwiches wrapped in wax papers—and extra ammunition, for today at least—for when I need to do a stake-out._

_Curious, I bent to pick up the little twist of paper that had fallen to the ground. It took me a second to smooth it out._

_The message on it wasn't complex:_

_We need to meet. Barker's Pub, East 21st, 2 pm. Don't be late._


	10. Unexpected Meetings

**Frea's A/N the First**: I know we said Thursday. Well, it's Thursday in Croatia. I think. Either way. I'm loving all of the theories, guys! I mean, Irene Demova as the Angel, that's an awesome one. This story would have...wait for it...a real case of the Demovas, if that happened! And I appreciate those of you trying to turn it into an _Alias _crossover. I'm flattered! Thanks to our readers, our reviewers, our beta readers, our pre-readers, our fans, and Joss Whedon.

**mxpw's A/N the First**: Please keep all the theories about the identity of Chuck's guardian angel coming. They are providing a lot of entertainment for me! And it's awesome to see you guys so engaged and thinking about the story. It's gratifying. Thanks for reading and sticking with us.

* * *

**Unexpected Meetings**

There wasn't a better part of the city to get a drink than the Broken Monkey. Actually, that was a lie. The Monkey invariably proved to be a terrible place to get a drink: usually whenever I moseyed up to it in hopes of drowning my sorrows, I somehow ended up in a completely different place than where I'd started out, and that final place didn't always involve wearing trousers. But Morgan was sleeping after his inking shift at the Trib, or running surveillance on his scientist, and most of the regulars were probably still asleep on their park benches, so I figured it was safe to wander to the Monkey and have myself a drink.

It wasn't even noon when I braved the crowds, limping a little down the street. In daylight, without the neon to hide the dirt and grime, the Monkey looked a sad sight, weary and a little ramshackle. Crowds hurried by without paying the joint a second look, always in a rush. I felt somebody brush against my side as I made my way to the door, but it was Chicago, so I didn't give it a second thought.

Skip Johnson was guarding the door, so we exchanged amicable nods as I let myself in. I peeled off my coat and hat, wincing a little as the movement jolted my bullet wound.

"Well, aren't you a sight for sore eyes," Jill said as I took a seat at the bar. "Where ya been the past couple of nights, handsome? We missed you."

I didn't have the energy to keep up our usual flirtation, though I managed to muster up a smile for her. She wasn't in her club-wear yet, but rather a well-fitted vest and a pencil skirt, so she must have just dropped by to get a paycheck. "Oh, you know how it goes," I said. I wanted to make a joke about interrogating Soviet spies and facing down the Bishop, but it would only worry her. "Burning the midnight oil. I'm sorry to have missed your show."

She flicked a hand at that. "I haven't brought anything new. The big fella doesn't care as long as the locals are happy."

"Listening to you, they're always happy."

"Aren't you sweet?" Jill lit her own cigarette this time, carefully blowing the smoke away from me. "You look tired, Chuck."

I thought fondly of all of the sleep I wasn't getting, but it didn't seem to matter much in the face of Sarah going to Detroit. She really was leaving this time. She'd been missing before, but this had such a taste of finality to it that it made my throat dry. "Yes," I said.

"Hot case?"

"It's work stuff, it'll pass."

"Still looking for that fellow? The one you couldn't find the other night?"

"He remains elusive. I'm starting to think he doesn't exist," I said, pushing off of the stool since there wasn't a bartender in sight. Jeff was likely sleeping off a raging hangover under the trash bins again. I lifted the partition and slid behind the bar. "Can I fix you a drink?"

"Bit early to be drinking, don't you think?"

"Probably." I shrugged that off and grabbed the bottle of Jim Beam. "But I do hate to drink alone."

"Looks like you're going to have to," said a new voice. "Miss Roberts, the big guy's asking for you."

"Oh, okay. Thank you. Chuck…" Jill gave me a long, considering look. "Are you all right?"

"Never better," I lied, and I knew she could tell I wasn't speaking truth, but she still inclined her head and left me at the bar with Anna, who stood with her arms crossed over her chest. The Japanese sword should have looked out of place, considering she wore a suit and a tie like the rest of the Monkey's management. She made it look better than they did, naturally, but the sword hanging at her hip was still a tad bit jarring. "You've lost a bartender somewhere. I thought you should know."

"And you're looking to pay for your tab by fillin' in for him, Carmichael?"

I thought about it. "Will it help?"

"I can put you on the schedule."

"Better not. I'm nothing but trouble. You don't want that hanging over your house, Miss Wu."

"Probably not." Anna let out a sigh and, shifting the sword, took up residence on the stool Jill had just abandoned. She made a come-forward motion, so I obligingly poured her a couple of fingers, too. "A little bird told me somebody here took the advice of our erstwhile barhop the other night."

I grimaced and clinked my glass to hers. "And I paid for it dearly, trust you me."

"Yes, that was rather…"

"I know I'm an idiot." The liquor burned going down, but I deserved that. How long of a bus ride was it to Detroit, anyway? "Damn near ended with me dead or in the slammer. I owe Jeff a swift poke with a sharp stick. In the eye."

"Probably why he saw you coming and hid in the back room," Anna said.

"That mook is here?" I started to push back my sleeves, but I remembered the gaping hole in my arm courtesy of Shaw's bullet, and I thought better of it. "Figures. My fault for taking a line from a fat-head."

"Yes, it is. What'd you get?"

"Bupkis, of course. And nearly arrested. You keep your ear to the ground, Miss Wu. You been hearing things?"

"I hear things, like maybe the Bishop's not so happy with one down-on-his-luck private detective on account of said detective's vigilante pet turning his favorite gunsel into a human sieve. And maybe I hear that he's put out a bounty on your head, and on Bryce Larkin's. He wants you both just as bad now."

I couldn't hide the wince. "Ah."

"We don't take with his racket here, Carmichael, so you're safe now, but I wouldn't push your luck—or ours—until you fix this." Anna tossed back the rest of her drink. "This one's on the house. You look like you need it."

I picked up the hat I'd taken off when I'd spotted Jill. "Guess I'll see myself out."

"Don't get dead, kid."

"Thanks for the drink." After I slammed back the rest of the drink, I picked up my coat and put it on. In the corner of my eye, I saw something white flutter out of the pocket. That was strange. I kept my papers in the pockets of my trousers. Coat pockets were for gloves and sandwiches wrapped in wax papers—and extra ammunition, for today at least—for when I need to do a stake-out.

Curious, I bent to pick up the little twist of paper that had fallen to the ground. It took me a second to smooth it out.

The message on it wasn't complex:

_We need to meet. Barker's Pub, East 21st, 2 pm. Don't be late. – B.L._

I turned the paper over, blinking at the back. It was a little pamphlet for Lady in Red cigarettes. A sophisticated redhead in a pink dress and a mink stole lounged against a blue backdrop, seeming not to have a single care in the world. B.L., I thought. Who did I know that—Bryce Larkin. The guy I had been hunting had been close enough to me to slip a note into my pocket and I hadn't noticed at all. Some detective I was.

Excitement began to thrum through my blood. The note could have been a plant from the Bishop, but they'd never been that subtle. If they'd been that close, they would have just shot me. No, this had to be from Larkin himself. Finally, I was about to get some answers.

"Were you really leaving before you could say goodbye?" Jill appeared in front of me, her coat folded neatly over her arm.

I stuffed the note back into the same pocket Bryce had slipped it into. "Of course not," I said, though I hadn't given Jill a second thought. I pulled my pocket watch loose and checked the dial. "But I'm afraid I can't walk you home. I've got a meeting to get to. Get your coat for you, though?"

"Please." Jill stepped close so that I could take the coat and help her into it. "You're really all right, aren't you, Chuck?"

"I am. I've been in over my head before. Never had a problem getting out of those scrapes, too."

"If you say so." Jill looked doubtful as she wished me a good day. I tipped my hat to her in reply, held the door for her to walk by—her scent was jasmine today, and it smelled quite nice—and headed in the opposite direction. Finally, a break in the case, I thought. The air seemed fresher and sweeter, even for Chicago air, as I stepped down the street with a definite bounce in my step.

Larkin would have answers, and after the last couple of days I'd had, I wanted answers.

How long did it take post to arrive from Detroit? The thought suddenly brought everything crashing back. I wanted to send Sarah a letter right then, to tell her about the case. Talking an ongoing case out with her, tossing around our silly Cubs ball as we threw ideas out. And given just how deep I was in with everybody now—the police, the Bureau, the Bishop—I could have used her insight. But she hadn't even left me an address, so it would obviously have to wait.

Two blocks from the Monkey, I spotted the tail. Every time I made a turn, so did the gent in the trillby about half a block back. Spiders prickled over my spine. I didn't recognize him, but the Bishop had half the city on the take. And with a bounty on my head, I was about to attract a lot of unsavory types. And in the event that it _wasn't_ the Bishop catching up to me to bring me in for my sins, I had the Russians and the plainclothes police interested in me, too. It was just a smorgasbord of options for people who wanted Charles Carmichael's head on a platter.

I knew how to dodge a creep when I needed to, but it took time, and I didn't have that right now. And if I showed up with a thug right behind me, Larkin would rabbit. It was getting mighty hard to breathe in this spot between the rock and the hard place in which I'd found myself firmly lodged.

To make matters worse, my tail wasn't alone. I was close to 21st, ready to make a break for it, when none other than Mr. Colt rounded the corner at the end of the block. He hadn't even bothered with a coat and hat and his shirtsleeves were rolled up. I tried to tell myself that it wasn't to showcase the fists the size of cinder blocks that he cracked together, but I wasn't real convinced. And there was nowhere for me to run: with the mook behind me and Colt in front of me, and nothing but some boutiques to duck into, I was well and truly stuck.

I was, I saw in painfully clear detail, about to die.

I put my hand on the butt of the M1911.

"I wouldn't do whatever you're thinking about doing, if I were you," said a flat voice from behind me.

I whirled and made a sound that was definitely not a yelp. Agent Daniel Shaw of the Federal Bureau of Investigation straightened from where he'd been leaning against a pillar and casually folded his newspaper. "Where did you even come from?" I asked, looking around me in bewilderment.

"You're a hard man to find, Chuck, but eventually, we all know you'll go back to the Monkey. Everybody goes back to the Monkey. Put your hands on your head."

"Uh, this is really not a good time, Agent Shaw." Colt and the other fellow had slowed down, and I might not have harbored much amiability toward Shaw, but I also didn't particularly want to see him beaten to a pulp alongside me. "In fact, it's a really, really bad time."

"Really? Seems to me it might be the best time." Shaw reached into his coat. Though I tensed, he only pulled out his badge and blithely held it up in full view of the street. Immediately, Colt and the mook found interesting things to look at in various shop fronts. I couldn't help but be impressed. "You can run, Carmichael, but I sense you're not going to get far in your current state."

That space between the rock and the hard place tightened even further. I took a deep gulp of air to keep from feeling like I was suffocating. One thing was certain: there was no way I was going to make it to Barker's Pub to meet Bryce Larkin.

"And I checked, no mysterious figure helping you out this time, either." My shock must have registered on my face, for Shaw let out a little, caustic laugh. "Oh, yeah, Carmichael. I've been around. I've heard all of the rumors. Put your hands on your head."

I was out of options, but that had never stopped the bravado before. I put my hand near my gun again. "I need your word you won't let the Bishop's men get me in jail."

"Now, Carmichael, why would I do a thing like that? I need you just as much as you seem to need me at the moment." Shaw's smile felt a little flat and wrong, but there wasn't anything I could do. Trapped between a homicidal hatchetman and a crooked Fed, I'd take the Fed almost every time. At least I knew Casey had my back.

So I sighed and put my hands on my head. "This day just gets better and better."

* * *

**Frea's A/N the Last**: Good news! Our next update will be a SURPRISE. So watch your emails or our Twitters because when it arrives, IT WILL BE MAGICAL. In the meantime, here's a taste:

_"I don't think you want to look in there," I said._

_She gave me a long look and then turned to Carina, who sighed, holstered her Ladysmith, and stepped past me. And before I could stop either of them, the ladies stepped inside the room, seemingly without a care. With my stomach doing jumping jacks in my middle, I followed them._


	11. Jail Cell Blues

**Frea's A/N the First:** So this chapter is a real pivot-point in our story. Also, I want you to know that half the deaths in this story were not my idea, just in case you guys get any thoughts in your head that I'm taking Joss Whedon's writing to heart.

**mxpw's A/N the First**: Wouldn't it be awesome if Frea told me when she was updating so I could write my own notes? However, she did not, so I am a sock puppet being controlled to thank you lovely readers, you lovely beta readers (the steampunky one and the musical-movies-with-Nazis-in-them-y one), and everybody that's left a review, tweet, reblog, or private message. You guys remain wonderful!

* * *

**Jail Cell Blues**

With my surrender evident, Shaw moved quickly, shoving me face first into the brick wall of the nearest alley. The first thing he did was divest me of my M1911 and the S&W 27, placing both in the pockets of his trench coat. I wanted to protest—that was no way to treat my things, especially not the S&W—but I didn't want to risk another sock to the gut. He hauled my arms behind me none too gently, slapping the cuffs on my wrists. Once I was in the bracelets, he started to search me in earnest, poking through my pockets. His movements grew jerkier the longer he searched and came up empty.

I frowned. I hadn't noticed the piece of paper with the note from Bryce on it. Had Shaw missed it?

He spun me around and shoved me back into the wall again, hand pressing up against my throat. I gurgled a little, but still managed to ask, "Looking for something special, sunshine?"

Shaw sneered, his face even blunter and uglier up close. "You've been nothing but trouble for me, Carmichael. All I've heard since I rolled into town was that you were a man who knew how to find things, but as far as I can tell, you're an idiot. What have you found? Bupkis."

"I'd say I'm sorry, but I'd be lying."

I wasn't completely surprised when Shaw punched me in the stomach, but I still wasn't prepared for getting hit by what felt like a side of ham. Air escaped past my lips in a rush as I doubled over, coughing piteously.

Why, why, _why_ did I always have to mouth off at people who were bigger than me? What sadistic sign had I been born under?

Shaw crouched so that his mouth was next to my ear. "You think you're so smart, Carmichael? You think you're clever? You're not, and you'll see just how smart you _aren't_ when I pin the rap for Sarkoloff's murder on you."

"I didn't kill Sarkoloff."

"Doesn't matter. Somebody did, and right now, you look good for it. Let's go." He grabbed the back of my coat and frog-marched me to a waiting sedan, into which he unceremoniously shoved me. I banged my elbow against the car door, cursing.

"Where are we going?" I asked when he climbed into the driver's seat.

"Let's go pay your pals at the 42nd a visit. It's a good enough place to stash you while I figure out what to do with you. Everything's gonna hang on you, Carmichael. I'll see to that," Shaw said, and I could hear the vindictive satisfaction in his voice as he started the car. It sent cold sweat dripping down my back as I shifted to find a more comfortable way to sit with my hands cuffed behind my back.

He probably couldn't make the murder rap stick. Most likely. Casey had always had my back and would have it again, but it would take hours or even days to get the whole mess cleared up. I only had two hours before my meet with Larkin and something told me I wouldn't get a second chance with him if I missed it. And jail cells left a man vulnerable in a way being on the street didn't. The Bishop had men all over the institutions of Chicago. I only had to come across one guard he'd paid off and they'd be carving my headstone right quick. I needed to get out of there. And I needed to do it quickly.

* * *

An hour later, inexplicably, I was still alive.

Shaw had marched me right past Booking, which had made the desk sergeant's eyes widen, and had tossed me right into a cell—literally. I'd bumped my bad leg hard on the cell's concrete slab of a cot, so that vicious sparkles had shimmered across my vision. An hour later, it still ached like a sore tooth, but thankfully, I hadn't seen a single guard ready to slip a knife between my ribs, and even better, I hadn't seen Shaw.

That didn't stop me from being surprised when I heard the rhythm of high heels striking dirty linoleum and suddenly, Carina Miller stood outside of my cell, looking divinely bored.

I scrambled to my feet. "What are you doing here?"

"And hello to you too, Mr. Carmichael. It's a lovely day outside. Is early October in Chicago always this mild? I must say, I find it—"

"I don't have time for games, Miss Miller," I said. I had less than an hour until my meet with Larkin. The relief I'd felt at seeing Carina had been temporary, especially as she didn't appear in much of a helpful mood. "What's going on? What are you doing here?"

Carina frowned and brushed a couple of strands of auburn hair away from her face. "You're not nearly as much fun as you were last time we met up. I told you I'd look into your Agent Shaw, didn't I? Good thing I did, too. Otherwise I'd never have known you were here."

"So, what, you're here to bust me out?" I asked, more than a little incredulous.

Carina smirked. "Something like that. Shaw finally stepped out. This was the first opening I've had or else I would have been here sooner."

I had a hard time believing anything she was telling me. "Why?"

"Believe it or not, Chuck, but we are on the same side. We both want the same thing."

I seriously doubted Carina Miller wanted home plate tickets at Wrigley and Sarah back in her life, but that was burying the lead. There was really only one thing I wanted to talk about with her. "Did you kill Sarkoloff?"

"No."

"Why should I believe you? I leave you alone with the guy for thirty minutes and he winds up dead. That doesn't inspire much confidence that you're being truthful, Miss Miller."

I could see the growing frustration in Carina's eyes, but she simply shifted her stance and crossed her arms over her chest. "I gave you my word. I'm many things, but a welcher ain't one of them. He was alive when I left."

"Why'd you leave?"

"I wasn't going to stick around and answer some copper's questions, friend of yours or not."

I scoffed. "You've been lying to me since the moment we met."

"I told the truth about some things. And fine, if you won't believe me, maybe you'll believe somebody you _do_ trust." She gave a _come hither_ gesture down the hallway to somebody I couldn't see.

As if on cue, a very familiar pattern of sound echoed down the hallway. Instinct had me straightening up and tidying my clothes because I recognized that pattern, even if it was impossible. That was the rhythm and click of Sarah Walker's shoes, and she should have already been on a bus to Detroit by now.

And yet, there she was.

"Sarah!" I said when she finally came into sight. My heart pounded a couple of times in my chest. Relief and happiness mixed with confusion. "What are you doing here?"

"Hi, Chuck." Her smile was hesitant and didn't reach her eyes. "I'm here to get you out."

"_How_?" I asked, and right then, it occurred to me that Sarah was the mystery woman Carina had mentioned time and again. I immediately felt like kicking myself for not seeing it before: there were only four women in my life, and only two that really knew me. So it had to be either Ellie or Sarah. I'd grown up with Ellie and she would never have kept a secret like Carina Miller from me, so… "Wait. How do you two know each other? Why aren't you in Detroit? You told me you were leaving."

Sarah didn't look at me. "This cell," she said instead, and the guard stepped forward with the keys. He pulled the door open, the squeak of the hinges protesting making us all wince. Finally, Sarah looked at me, and her face was lined with apology. "I never actually left for Detroit."

"I don't understand. What's going on? How do you know Carina? How'd you spring me?"

Sarah opened her mouth to answer, but Carina stepped between us. "Here's probably not the place for that," she said, looking at the guard, who blinked back at us. "Maybe we should go someplace else."

I suddenly remembered the thing that had been plaguing me all during my wait in the cell. Automatically, I glanced at my watch, which made me let out a curse. We needed to hurry if I was going to make it to Barker's Pub on time. "We'll have to do that later. I've got a lead on Bryce Larkin, but we need to move _now_."

"Well," Carina said, "no time to waste, then."

She handed me my hat and the three of us hurried away from the guard, heading for the front door. Normally, I would have stopped to say hi to Casey or to invite him to come along, depending on the case, but now I just rushed for the Chicago sunlight.

"What's your lead?" Carina asked, keeping up with me easily despite the heels. In fact, neither women seemed at all bothered by the fact that they were essentially running on stilts or that I was several inches taller than them and had the stride to match. They weren't even breathing hard.

"I bumped into Larkin earlier—"

Sarah grabbed my arm and yanked me to a halt, spinning me around. I wheeled about in surprise. She was a lot stronger than I'd ever suspected. "He did _what_?" she asked. "Are you okay?"

I tugged my arm free and started walking again. "I'm fine, I didn't even know it was him. Let's just—we need to go, okay?"

"Cab ride's on me," Carina said, and whistled for a taxi.

* * *

When the cab pulled up in front of Barker's Pub, my watch said we were only two minutes late.

I rushed headlong into the pub, hoping that Larkin had stuck around, but instead, I only saw the thin remains of the lunch crowd. A few businessmen enjoying a liquid lunch, a few old timers, but nobody that looked remotely like Bryce Larkin. Frustrated and praying, I went straight to the barkeep. "I'm looking for a fella, about this high." I held my hand up close to my ear. "Blue eyes, looks a bit like a film star?"

The barkeep hooked a thumb over his shoulder. "Back room."

With a nod of thanks, I hurried the way he'd indicated, Sarah and Carina on my heels. We entered a hallway lit only by a single window at the end of it, where the mid-afternoon sunshine cast a ghostly blue light on everything. There were only two doors, and the air smelled of smoke and fried food. One of the doors led to a washroom you couldn't pay me to use, which left the second for the back room that hopefully contained Bryce Larkin. I pulled out my M1911, which, along with my S&W 27, Sarah had returned at the police station, leaving me with nothing but more questions. The grip felt comforting against my hand. I'd been ambushed and surprised too many times lately, so I wasn't taking any chances now.

It didn't surprise me when I saw Carina with a Ladysmith in hand, but I was nearly stunned stupid when I saw a similar weapon in Sarah's hand. I opened my mouth to say something, but she gave me a sharp shake of her head and I clamped shut. If that's how she wanted to handle things, fine.

I opened the door and almost immediately closed it again. It, I saw immediately, didn't matter that we were late. Bryce Larkin had been dead for longer than two minutes. If the pool of blood and the literal knife in his back was any indication, it hadn't been a pleasant end either.

"What is it?" Sarah asked.

"I don't think you want to look in there," I said.

She gave me a long look and then turned to Carina, who sighed, holstered her Ladysmith, and stepped past me. And before I could stop either of them, the ladies stepped inside the room, seemingly without a care. With my stomach doing jumping jacks in my middle, I followed them.

The entire room reeked of death. Bryce Larkin lay face down, head turned gruesomely toward to the door. Thankfully, his eyes were closed. I don't think I could have handled eyes that blue staring at me from beyond the grave. He wasn't my first dead body I'd seen in person—the darker side of my business came calling more often than I liked—but seeing death that close and that brutal always knocked me back a step. My knees felt shaky and weak as I took in everything: the way the blood pooled around his body, stark and red, the angle of the knife, the hat that had been clearly knocked off his head in the struggle. There wasn't much besides him, a table, and a half-eaten meal in the room. A tankard of ale had dripped onto the floor and mixed with the very edge of the puddle, swirling and making the blood seem lighter colored.

I jolted when I felt somebody tug my arm, and suddenly Sarah was there. Vaguely, I recognized that she and Carina had been talking the entire time, but I had been staring at Bryce Larkin with rapt, morbid fascination. I couldn't have repeated a single thing they'd said. "Chuck?" Sarah asked.

"That's Larkin," I said. "Who would have killed him?" A thought occurred to me and angrily, I whirled on Carina. "Did you do this? First Sarkoloff and now this?"

Carina held up her hands and took a step away from me. "No!"

"Carina's telling the truth, Chuck." Sarah stepped between us. She seemed paler than usual, but there was a strength around her lips and jaw that made me stare at them. I hastily yanked my gaze up to her eyes. "Larkin looks like he's been dead for only about ten minutes. Carina was with us."

"Also, I got no reason to kill him," Carina said.

I turned away until I could compose myself. Sarah was right. I might not have believed Carina when she said she hadn't killed the Soviet spy, but I knew enough about death to recognize a fresh one, and Carina couldn't have done that. But somebody _had_ and it had to be somehow connected to the Bishop and to Shaw and even the Soviets. I shoved my pistol back in its holster. Think, I told myself, think. What's the next step?

As much as I didn't want to, I stared at the corpse on the floor. I rose from my seat and crouched next to the body, careful not to step in any of the blood. I gave the body a once-over. "Somebody already searched him."

Sarah crouched next to me. "Yes, we figured that. If he had anything on him, the killer likely has it now."

"Fantastic," I said under my breath.

And that's when I smelled it. It was faint and barely noticeable over the coppery pong of the blood, but I could just pick it up: cigarette smoke, and familiar cigarette smoke at that. The only person I'd spent time around today that smoked was Carina, and her Lady in Red cigarettes smelled nothing like this. This was bitterer, more cloying, and that's when I realized why it was familiar. I'd smelled it before at the Broken Monkey.

"You know something," Sarah said, looking at my face.

"I think I may have a lead on who killed Larkin."

"And it's not me?" Carina asked, sarcasm dripping from her voice.

"No, but I still don't trust you."

"All fine by me, Carmichael. You follow up on your lead. I need to talk to my superiors and update them on Larkin." And before I could even say anything in response, she had already slunk her way out of the room.

"We should get out of here before somebody thinks we did this," Sarah said.

"Good plan. C'mon. We're going to the Broken Monkey."

* * *

**Frea's A/N the Second**: Chuck. Chuck, no. NO, Chuck. Nothing good has happened to you at the Broken Monkey! Whyyyy would you even go there? Anyway, next chapter will be out Wednesday. Here's a taste:

_"Wow," was all I could think to say to that. "How many years have we known each other and I never even suspected."_

_"It's perfectly fine, Chuck. You haven't suspected a lot of things."_

_"What's that supposed to—" I started to ask, but as I did, the trapdoor lifted on its own. I scrambled back, reaching for my weapon, but Sarah already had her gun out and leveled right at the head of…_


	12. A Dame That Can Think For Herself

**mxpw's A/N the First: **Thank you for reading the story. It's awesome seeing the reviews you guys leave, especially all your theories. It's great fun to see you guys speculate when I know everything. Thanks to our beta readers and to my cowriter. I may be her hero, but I'm still just a regular guy, just like everybody else. Thanks for reading!

**Frea's A/N the First**: Snort.

* * *

**A Dame That Can Think For Herself**

I made it a block. I wasn't proud of the fact that I stumbled into an alley by a barbershop and chucked my breakfast onto the pavement, but there wasn't much I could do. Sarah never flinched. Her hand rested like a warm, solid weight on the back of my neck as I heaved. When I closed my eyes, all I could see was the way Bryce Larkin had fallen and the angle of that knife sticking out of his back. The smell of the blood seemed to cling to the insides of my nostrils as I braced a hand against the barbershop and divested myself of most of my stomach lining.

"Sorry," I said, humiliation making my cheeks burn like twin fires on my face.

Sarah reached into her purse and pulled out a pack of clove gum. I gave her a grateful nod as I took a piece. The clove burned the back of my throat, and the sharp taste grounded me in the moment. "How much have you had to eat today?" she asked.

"I stopped at a bakery by Ellie's parents' old place." Of course, I'd only been able to afford a roll, which I'd had to wolf down on my way to the Broken Monkey after being so rudely awoken by Casey, but shame kept me from saying that out loud.

Sarah gave me one of her classic looks. "You need to take care of yourself better. Here, let's walk along, away from…that." She didn't look at the mess I'd left behind in the alley but tugged on my arm, getting me moving again. "Why do we need to go to the Broken Monkey?"

"The cigarette."

"What cigarette?"

"Whoever killed Bryce, he was smoking…something. I've smelled it at the Monkey before. Maybe somebody was following me, and they picked Bryce's note off of me. It wasn't there when Shaw searched my pockets." Something occurred to me. "Sarah, why do you have a gun?"

"That's not important now. You think going back to the Monkey will help?"

"Bunny—she's the one that sold me the Lady in Red cigarettes, the ones that led me to Carina and…" In a flash, I realized something: Bryce's note to me had been written on a piece of paper for the Lady in Red brand. I hadn't thought anything of it at the time because it just seemed like one of those scrap pieces of paper you find to write a convenient note on. But what if the paper had been deliberate? Bryce had sent me to Carina, but why? And for what? Had it been to warn me that she was a spy? Or was there something there he had wanted me to see?

He had picked a very inconvenient time to be dead, honestly.

"And?" Sarah prompted, as I'd stopped talking in the middle of a sentence.

I shoved all of the supposition about the Lady in Red back inside. "And maybe he bought his cigarettes at the Monkey while waiting? It's a long-shot, but it's all we've got."

"Chuck, if you go back to the Monkey, Shaw's going to find you again."

"Or worse, the Bishop will," I agreed. "We'll go in the back way."

Sarah merely sighed. "Why am I not surprised there's a backdoor into that place?"

"Did you know Bryce?" I blurted out. It seemed like if she and Carina knew each other, and Carina knew of Bryce, maybe the circle was smaller than I thought.

Sarah shook her head, the movement tight and anxious. We walked along with her arm tucked into mine, and the clove was almost enough to cover the pervading taste of sick in the back of my mouth. "Not personally, though I knew of him. I suppose you're curious about that, and you've a right to be. I'm afraid I may have told a few white lies to you, Chuck. I wasn't a nurse in the War."

That much was clear. "You worked for Wild Bill, too?"

"I did, yes, with Carina. I left it all behind after the War."

"Why?" I asked. "If you worked for the OSS, you had to be good at your job."

"I could ask you the same question," Sarah said.

The lady had a point. I'd always had a head for numbers and math—it came from having a father who was a professor of mathematics at Northwestern, even if he'd ignored me all my life—and an eye for code-breaking. They'd asked me to stick around. I'd given them a cold shoulder or two in reply.

"Why not tell me, then?" I asked. "I wouldn't have held it against you."

"I wanted a new start. Well, another new start."

She started to make the regular turn to go to the Monkey, but I tugged on her arm. "No, this way." Truth was, I was kicking myself over not having used this entrance earlier, but to be fair, Sarah's leaving for Detroit had shaken me some. Maybe it was ironic that she _hadn't_ gone to Detroit, and I was even more shaken up. "What are you talking about, new start? Like, a new start after the War? Leave it all behind and just be Sarah Walker?"

Sarah let out a long sigh. "My name's not Sarah Walker," she said.

I blinked. "I've been calling you the wrong name? You should have corrected me. I feel mighty foolish now."

"No, it's okay. I wanted everybody to think my name was Sarah Walker. It's really Sarah Wechsler."

"Oh." I thought of the days of Freedom Fries and Liberty Dogs, of a paranoia that had swept over the country when all things German were denounced. "You weren't a Kraut spy, right?"

Her lips thinned. "No, I wasn't. I'm as American as you or anybody on this street."

"Whoa, sorry. I was teasing. It's this way." I led the way down a seedy alley not unlike the one I had so recently soiled with my breakfast. Four garbage bins were stacked too neatly in a row. I moved one to the side and revealed the trap door beneath, which I immediately bent to pry up. "So, tired of people lookin' at you sideways? That's why you changed your name?"

"That, or my father is Black Jack Burton."

The trapdoor slipped in my fingers, nearly crushing them. I let out a very masculine yelp. "Your f-father is Black Jack?"

"And so's Carina's."

For a moment, there was nothing I could do but kneel there on one knee by the trapdoor, and stare. "Let me get this straight," I said when the ability to speak finally returned. "Your father is Black Jack Burton, the most notorious con-man known to this city. And if that's enough, you've got a sister in the CIA, and you yourself were—"

"I ran missions in France and Germany behind enemy lines during the war, that's correct," Sarah said, her chin lifting slightly. "And she's my half-sister, if we're going to be technical about this."

That certainly explained why I had thought it was Sarah every time I'd heard Carina approaching. They were of a height and even of similar builds, though Carina was redheaded as the day was long, and Sarah's hair was a brilliant blonde that seemed haloed now in the mid-afternoon daylight. Not much seemed familiar in the way of facial shape, though, but if they were only half-sisters, that much seemed fair.

"Wow," was all I could think to say to that. "How many years have we known each other and I never even suspected."

"It's perfectly fine, Chuck. You haven't suspected a lot of things."

"What's that supposed to—" I started to ask, but as I did, the trapdoor lifted on its own. I scrambled back, reaching for my weapon, but Sarah already had her gun out and leveled right at the head of…

"Morgan?" I asked.

Halfway out of the trapdoor, he paused and adjusted his Lundberg Stetson, squinting on account of the bright sunlight after the dark tunnel, no doubt. His eyes tracked from the ground to the point of Sarah's gun, and he yelped. "Whoa! Is this a stick-up? I didn't do it, I swear!"

Sarah's gun vanished almost into thin air. Something about the movement sat at the back of my brain, lodged there like a splinter. That much unconscious grace… "Sorry," she said, and broke my train of thought.

"Morgan," I said, and Morgan swung about in fear. When he saw that it was me, he deflated in relief. "What are you doing, using the back entrance?"

"Bishop." Morgan pulled himself the rest of the way out of the tunnel, accepting the hand I offered to help him up. "Kicked in my door last night, so I figured I'd lay low for a little while."

"At the Monkey?"

"Yes, that seems to be the brilliant idea going around today," Sarah said, giving me a pointed look.

"It's all right. I'd already left for my shift at the Trib, so no harm done." Morgan blinked at Sarah a few times. "So he found you! Why do you have a gun? Has the Bishop come after you, too?"

"No, but I thought better safe than sorry."

Morgan beamed. "Smart! I like a dame who can think for herself—and a dame with a gun."

"I'm flattered," Sarah said in a voice dryer than the climate of Morocco.

"I'm sorry about your door," I told Morgan.

"It's all right. I took your warning to heart, and I know how to dodge good old Vinnie Karpazzo. He had a goon outside the Trib offices, but I—"

"Wait, are you meaning to tell me he's stalking you at work now?" I asked. The Bishop had upped the ante, if he was willing to send men to track Morgan down at work.

"It's all right, I paid one of the newsboys to do my shift for me. I was busy looking for sources on that murder at the McCallister Building."

Sarah frowned. "What murder at the McCallister Building?"

If the Bishop was stalking Morgan at work, then that meant all of the "safe zones" were officially off the table. Vincent Karpazzo was ruthless, yes, but he was also a mobster's gentleman, which meant he had rules he strictly adhered to. He believed a man should have the right to earn an honest paycheck, so workplaces were off-limits to him. Scruples, he always claimed, kept him from getting between a man and his money.

The blood threatened to rush out of my head at once, leaving a vacuum running just inside my ears. Everything sounded deafening, up to and including the cacophonous crash of my heartbeat against my ribs.

"Yes, the—Chuck? You okay, buddy?"

"Ellie," I said, and lurched as I turned toward the mouth of the alley. Somehow, my gun was already in my hand. "If he's chasin' you at work, he'll—Ellie. Our Lady of the Lilies—"

Realization dawned on my friends' faces at the same time. I didn't stick around to follow through. Like that, I was free of my daze and sprinting down the alleyway as fast as my legs could take me. I'd warned Ellie to lie low, to stay out of danger, but like me, she'd always had more compassion than sense. She wouldn't leave her patients if there were any in danger. And if the Bishop was willing to sully Morgan's workplace, he wouldn't quibble about harassing Ellie at hers. Hadn't she said a couple of nurses were on the take?

I exploded onto the street and took off running toward the hospital. It might already be too late. No, I couldn't think about that, I couldn't even imagine any of it. _An eye for an eye, Mr. Carmichael_, I could hear him saying in my head, over and over and over.

"Chuck!" Sarah's voice cut through as she grabbed my arm—the good one, thankfully. A taxi pulled over to the curb. She pushed me into the back of it, shouting directions at the driver.

We left Morgan behind.

"Drive fast," I said, and Sarah held me back from lunging forward. "As fast as you can, it's an emergency."

"Look, buddy, we've got speed limits in this town for a reason. I hit one fellow, I lose my license."

Desperate, I clawed at my vest until I pulled my pocket-watch loose. "You get us to Our Lady of the Lilies in under ten minutes, you can have this."

"Chuck," Sarah said. "You don't want to—"

The cabbie took one look at the watch. "Deal," he said, and pushed on the gas pedal.

Sarah yanked me back until I was flat against the back seat next to her. "Chuck, that watch is the only thing you have left of your father. Are you sure…"

"Ellie's more important to me than some watch." I barely even remembered my father. My parents had checked out, and checked out early. I guess they thought raising kids was too difficult. I didn't have any siblings. I just had Morgan, whose father had met his end in the bottom of a bottle, and Ellie.

And if Karpazzo hurt a single hair on Ellie's head…

It took a century and a half, even though the cabbie pushed the rattletrap well beyond the speed limit, before we pulled up in front of the hospital. I threw the watch in his direction, ripping the fob right out, and stumbled out of the cab. I probably knocked over a stretcher going in, but I didn't care. Neil, the day security guard, saw me coming and strode forward.

I grabbed his arm before he could take me down. "Dr. Bartowski—is she in? Did she come in today?"

"Yeah, she's back in her office. What's the matter with you, Carmichael?"

"No time to explain." With Neil staring after us in complete bafflement, Sarah and I hurried down the hall and up the stairs to Ellie's tiny office. I ran straight for the door.

"Erm, Chuck, maybe you should knock—"

I hit the door with my shoulder and plowed through, tripping and nearly falling into a heap in the entryway to Ellie's tiny office.

Ellie dropped her sandwich. Both she and the tall, blond man who'd been sitting across her desk rose to their feet in alarm. "Chuck?" Ellie asked. "What are you—Sarah? You're back? What's going on? Is something the matter?"

A quick glance told me there were no thugs or Bishops to be found. Instead, I'd stumbled upon two people eating cold cut sandwiches.

"Uh," I said. "Wow, okay, so…I can explain."

"You're not hurt, are you?" Ellie asked, looking me over. "What's wrong with your vest?"

I looked down. My bad leg was shaking—all the walking, running, and fighting I'd done on it in the past couple of days had not been kind to it—but even worse, my vest was torn at the front where I'd ripped the pocket watch free. Hastily, I buttoned up my coat over it and straightened, yanking off my hat and trying to fix my hair. "I'm not hurt," I said, though my arm stung a little. "And the vest is—it's no big deal. You're okay?"

"Why wouldn't we be?" the other doctor asked. "You must be the great Chuck Carmichael I've been hearing about."

"Most days," I said, feeling a little dazed as I shook his hand. "And you're…Dean? No, Devon, right? Devon Woodcomb?"

"One and the same."

"This is my…friend, Sarah Walker," I said, as I couldn't very well introduce her as my secretary anymore, as she'd up and quit on me.

Pleasantries were exchanged, with Sarah getting an equally enthusiastic handshake from Devon. I'd heard about the new doctor at Our Lady of the Lilies, but Ellie had always made him seem distant and not like they were friends. Yet there were clearly two subs on the desk, and Devon seemed to be standing unnecessarily close to Ellie. I narrowed my eyes at her, wondering what she hadn't been telling me, but she was looking agog at Sarah.

Before my blonde ex-secretary could dodge out of the way, Ellie practically strangled her in a hug. "Where have you been, lady? Chuck has been looking all over for you. We've been worried sick."

"I didn't mean to make you worry." Sarah's smile radiated discomfort. "I've just—my mother's been ill."

I dropped my hat, which saved me from gawking at Sarah, but only just. Her mother was sick? She'd never mentioned her parents prior to telling me her father was none other than one of Chicago's most notorious kings of crime. Finding out she had a sick mother just made me feel poorly about every frustrated thought I'd sent her direction since she'd left.

Ellie seemed to agree, for she grimaced in sympathy, giving Sarah another hug. "Oh, you poor thing. I'm so sorry. I've been teasing Chuck here about losing his Effie, and I had no idea. Is she getting better? I hope she is."

"Yes, thankfully, it wasn't as bad as we thought it could be."

Devon clapped me on the arm, managing to hit my wound precisely enough that I saw stars, horrible, horrible stars. "So what brings you by, Chuck?" he asked while I blinked away after-images of agony. "We're having a bit of a late lunch. There's more, if you're hungry."

We needed to put some distance between us and the city in case the Bishop was coming, or if he had men watching the hospital. But the thought of food had my stomach gurgling so obviously that a blush sprang up on my cheeks once more.

"Has he eaten?" Ellie asked Sarah.

"Not that I know," Sarah said.

"I happen to be in the room, in case you've forgotten," I said.

"And you sound hungry, my good fellow." Devon clapped me on the shoulder again, and it took everything I possessed not to whimper as aftershocks raced down my arm. "So why don't I go get a couple of chairs from my office and we'll have us a fine feast."

"That…"

"Sounds excellent," Sarah said, giving me a pointed look.

"That sounds excellent," I echoed her. "But if you'll excuse me, I think I need to pay a friend a quick call first."

Though I expected her to stay, Sarah put a hand on my elbow and smiled at Ellie. "We'll just be a moment," she said, and followed me out of the office. "Who are you thinking about calling?"

"The Bishop may be trying to kill the only woman that I can call a sister. I'm calling the cops."

"Oh, Casey. That's fine, then."

I squinted at her. "Who did you think I was going to call?"

"Never mind that." She rooted through her purse and handed me a quarter.

The coin in my hand seemed to burn with my own personal shame. I'd gone from employing this woman to borrowing money from her, though Sarah didn't look at all bothered by the fact that I didn't have two dimes to rub together. Pride, I'd discovered in the lean early days when meat had been a luxury I could ill-afford, was an expensive thing to have, so I swallowed mine and thanked her for the quarter.

"I'll save you a sandwich."

I stepped up to the payphone near the lounge, plugged in Sarah's quarter, and dialed the precinct from memory, bypassing the operator. The desk sergeant grumbled, but soon enough, Casey picked up the phone, answering with a brusque, "What do you want? I thought I told you to lay low."

"I may have forgotten to mention that I witnessed a murder last night," I said without preamble.

The other end of the line went mostly quiet. I could hear Casey's breath, which sounded like an enraged bull. "Carmichael, if you're joshing me, I will stick my boot up your ass so far that you'll be gnawing on shoelaces, you got me?"

"That's…colorful, but no. Tommy Delgado. I'm assuming your boys pulled him in with the morning's catch."

Another pause followed and Casey's breathing seemed louder and angrier. "Go on," he said, and I imagined him standing there with his hand in a vise-grip around the phone, fingers tightening until the handset creaked.

"I didn't do it."

"But you saw it happen and you know who did."

"I didn't see their face," I said, which wasn't quite a lie. "But the Bishop wants me, and he's breaking all of his rules to get to me. He had goons outside Morgan's place of occupation this morning, if you catch my drift."

"Carmichael, I never want to catch your drift. Why are you telling me this now?"

"Ellie."

Casey let out a long, drawn-out breath. "Where is she?"

"At the hospital. I'm with her, but…look, Casey, they're all after that guy named Larkin. They're not going to find him alive—don't ask me how I know, I didn't see that one happen. He took something, a device. I don't know what it does but everybody and his maiden aunt wants it, and I think somebody might've killed him to get it. Whatever it is, I need to get to the bottom of it, and fast."

"And you want me to babysit?"

"There's nobody I trust more." Except for _her_, and I had a feeling she was more interested in saving my bacon right now than Ellie's, wherever she was. Something niggled at the back of my mind again. I brushed it aside. "Please, Casey. She means everything to me."

"You owe me."

"Anything, you say the word, it's yours."

"Give me fifteen minutes."

The line went dead with a _click_. I hung up the receiver and stood for a minute, trying to process everything. To say that it had already been a very full day would've been like pointing out that the Cubs only liked to break my devoted heart a little. But Casey was on his way. The Bishop's thugs knew better than to tangle with him, though Casey would relish such an opportunity. He'd been aiming for the Bishop for years, but every time he drew near, the Bishop managed to slip away. Hell, Karpazzo had even learned from Mr. Capone's mistake: his taxes, I'm told, were immaculate.

This time when I went to Ellie's office, I made sure to knock. "I just spoke with Sergeant Casey," I said.

Ellie, however, cut me off by holding a hand up. "Sit," she said, pointing at a chair. "Eat. You look half-starved, so you can fill me in when you've got something in your stomach. And while we're on the subject of your health, when is the last time you got any sleep?"

"Oh, come now, Ellie, I'm an adult," I said, though I didn't protest when she all but shoved me into one of the chairs Devon must have brought in for Sarah and me. "I _can_ take care of myself, I promise."

"Yes, but some days I am convinced you're not very good at it." A sandwich was placed in front of me, and it smelled glorious. My first instinct was to dive upon it like a rabid wolf, though I had the feeling that would only prove Ellie's point. So I picked it up and took a medium-sized bite. The crunch of the lettuce, the cold ham, and the tang of the olive oil dressing, however, made me think twice about eating slowly. I inhaled the sandwich, earning a laughing pat on the back from Dr. Devon Woodcomb and an _I told you so_ eyebrow raise from Ellie. Sarah, mercifully, stayed quiet, though I noticed that she, too, was eating her sandwich a little more quickly than was theoretically circumspect.

I finished off the dill pickle and swore my stomach gave a happy sigh.

"So," Ellie said once I'd dusted the crumbs from my fingers. "Just what is it that's going on, Chuck?"

I looked uncertainly to Devon, who was chewing just as cheerfully as he seemed to do everything else. He raised his eyebrows back at me.

"It's okay to speak in front of him," Ellie said, rolling her eyes at me.

I cleared my throat. "I went to see the Bishop last night."

"Why would you _ever_ do that, Charles?"

"Yes, this is a question I would like an answer to, as well," Sarah said.

Devon gave me a sympathetic look, but it was obvious that no help was coming from that quarter, so I pinched the bridge of my nose and started to explain. I left out Larkin's death and Carina, but when it came time to explain what had happened the night before, I faltered. I didn't much like talking about my guardian angel in front of others.

"_She_ was there," I finally said. "She rescued me, but there was a scuffle, and—you know Tommy Delgado? The Bishop's second in command? He was supposed to get information out of me or kill me, I can't tell, and there was a scuffle and—so much blood. She killed him to protect both of us, and now the Bishop wants my head on a platter."

I could see the whites all around Ellie's irises. "Chuck…"

"He sent somebody after Morgan—don't worry, he's fine—but I can't take the risk that he'll go after you. So Casey's on his way over. I'll owe him a few, but the Bishop shouldn't get to you, not if you have Casey around."

"I'm not leaving the hospital."

"El," Devon said, and had Sarah and I both looking at him in surprise. "Chuck here has a point. I know I'm new in town, but this Bishop fellow sounds like bad business."

"Right, so _all of us_ should go," Ellie said, grabbing my wrist.

"Somehow, I'm at the middle of this, Ellie. I'm the one who has the best shot at figuring it out, and I owe it to this case to do so."

Ellie's glare had probably made ornery patients shut up and listen for years, I thought. Normally, it would have worked on me, even. "You're going to get yourself killed," she said. "And then what will I do? What will Morgan do? Chuck, you have people that care about you. What about them?"

"I'll keep him alive," Sarah said, and all three of us looked over at her in surprise.

"And when you vanish without a trace again?" Ellie asked.

Sarah flinched. "Ellie!" I said. "That is remarkably unfair. Sarah was free to go. She never owed me anything."

Ellie looked temporarily horrified. "It was. Sorry, you just—I'm scared, Chuck. You've been in over your head before, but this time you've really crossed the Bishop. And what am I supposed to do? Go into hiding like a good little girl?"

"You could do your best to annoy Casey," I said. "He gets complacent, see, without somebody to prod at him."

"I understand that you're trying to lighten up the situation, Chuck, but—"

Ellie broke off as the door opened. One of the nurses stuck her head in, looking harried. "Dr. Bartowski," she said. "There's some kind of commotion going on downstairs—Neil just called up to tell me—"

"He's here," I said, and immediately all four of us were on our feet, rushing for the door. "That has to be him. Ellie, is there a back door to this place? Something not really commonly known?"

"This way," Devon said, turning down the hallway. Ellie and Sarah hurried after him with me bringing up the rear. I wasn't as quick on my feet, thanks to the old war injury, but I could move along decently well. We'd wasted too much time. I should have told Casey to meet us somewhere else and gotten Ellie out of there lickety-split rather than trying to explain the situation and hoping she agreed. With the Bishop breathing hot fire down our necks, the time for social niceties had passed. I readjusted my hat and loped along, hoping that the Bishop didn't know Our Lady of the Lilies as well as my two doctor friends did.

We sped across a tile floor that had just been mopped and for the first time in my life, I saw Sarah Walker stumble as her heel caught a wet patch. I grabbed her arm to keep her upright and nearly jumped out of my skin when she let out a pained gasp.

"Sarah? What's wrong?"

"It's—it's nothing." But she looked deathly pale all of the sudden, like she'd injured her arm somehow, and I'd managed to do exactly as Devon had done to me and had grabbed said injury. But if she was hurt, why hadn't she said anything? What could she have done to her arm that would lead to such a reaction?

And it was odd, but that was the same arm that my guardian angel had…

"Chuck!" Ellie was the first to realize I'd stopped, for she swung back around and grabbed my wrist. "Why did you stop running? You're the one who keeps telling me we're all in danger. Come now."

But I couldn't move. I could only stare at Sarah, who seemed to sense my eyes on her, for she swiveled about suddenly instead of running after Devon.

She was my angel.

How had I never—

"Look out!" Ellie's eyes went wide again, and enough of my cognitive function returned that I could turn and see the men barreling their way down the hospital corridor, shoving nurses and patients to the side. Leading the way was my old friend, Mr. Colt, with two giant henchmen in his wake. All three of them wore matching expressions of horrible anger.

Sarah grabbed Ellie by the elbow and more or less shoved her toward Devon. "Get them out of here," she told me. "Now."

"You're her," I said.

For a brief second, her face fell, but then she was giving me the annoyed expression I'd always seen whenever I'd taken on a case for free, usually when I couldn't even afford to pay the electric bill. "Now's not the time," she said, and kicked off her heels. "_Go_, Chuck."

It wasn't a tone to be argued with, so I took off running after Ellie, who'd thankfully come back to her senses. Together, the two of us hit the stairwell, following Devon. I made it all the way to the first floor before the arithmetic caught up with me: I'd left Sarah—my angel, Sarah, whoever she was—I'd left her to face three men on her own.

Immediately, I turned. "Where are you going?" Ellie asked, clutching my coat.

"Get outside, find Casey. He'll keep you safe." I broke free of her grip. "I need to help my partner."

Before Ellie could stop me, I ran back to the stairs, taking them two at a time. Everything was jumbled inside of my head—Delgado's death, Larkin's death, my secretary was back, my secretary had regularly been saving my life for the past three years—but I had to put it all aside. I had to figure I was probably about to die. I was decent in a fistfight, thanks to my time at Camp Lehigh, but Mr. Colt was the size of two elephants smashed together and tied to a lion. Even my guardian angel—even Sarah would have a hard time with that.

I wasn't wrong. The first thing I saw when I rounded the corner into that hallway was Colt tossing Sarah back against a wall. I shouted, but Sarah landed on her feet, nimble as a cat, and socked Colt with a roundhouse that knocked him back a good two feet. One of the other thugs, who'd been watching in the background, looked over and spotted me. He immediately shoved his sleeves up and started walking in my direction.

Oh, Beelzebub, this was not going to end well. All I could see was the ripple of muscle in his arms and torso as he came toward me. And then he stopped and did some complicated motion with his hands and arms, like he was going to fight me like an old eastern film star. His hands curved through the air, and he let out a "Hee-yah!" that sounded frankly terrifying, before dropping into a fighting stance.

I pulled out my gun and fired once. He fell as Sarah dove through Colt's legs and kicked at the back of his knee, sending the large man into the wall. The third man rushed me so fast that he grappled the gun away from me, but before he could turn it in my direction, I stomped hard on his foot. While he hopped on the other one, yowling, I hit him with a haymaker that would've made Mr. Sugar Ray Robinson proud. It made my hand feel like it was splitting in two.

The thug dropped the gun and I dove on top of it, scooping it up. Sarah ducked a wide swing from Colt. I pointed the gun at my guy and said, "Don't even think about it, sir," with a lot more bravado than I felt.

He put his hands up, but only to try and grab the gun again. I fired out of reflex. He toppled, both hands clutching his thigh as he lay on the ground moaning. It was a good thing he was already in the hospital. Ears ringing from the gunfire, I whirled, ready to help Sarah take on Mr. Colt, and didn't duck in time.

Mr. Colt tossed Sarah like a fish at the market. She barreled into me hard, knocking me back against the wall, and we slid to the floor together in a heap. Thankfully, I took most of the blow, though it rattled me good. And then Colt stood over us both, cracking those locomotive engine-sized fists together.

"This," he said, voice rumbling like a foghorn, "will be fun, I think. Lots of sharp tools around. Maybe I'll scalp you both and have something to hang on my wall."

Quick as a snake, Sarah grabbed the gun out of my hand and fired off three quick shots. Colt dodged backwards, protecting his face, and while he was distracted, Sarah yanked me to my feet and ran, pausing only to scoop up her shoes. I only needed to glance over my shoulder to see Colt looking around in confusion before he spotted us and gave chase.

"Why didn't you kill him?" I asked Sarah as we rushed down the stairs.

"I've killed enough of the Bishop's men this week." She leapt from the landing to the bottom of the steps and my jaw nearly dropped.

"How did you—"

"Again, not the time, Chuck."

I may have muttered something under my breath about daredevil show-offs that I wasn't too proud to repeat, but I made it down the stairs, following Sarah. My guardian angel. Sarah. My secretary. Behind us, I could hear Mr. Colt making his way down, but when you're the size of Mt. Washington, you fortunately don't move very fast.

Sarah and I hit the exit doors at around the same time, bursting through them into the cold October air. We raced down a back alley, past trash bins and orderlies with lit cigarettes, and careened together onto the street.

"Carmichael!" Casey's voice made me look over, and there he was with Ellie and Devon across the street. Sarah and I hurried across, just in time for Casey and Mr. Colt to have a staring contest across the avenue. If I hadn't been gasping for air, I would have held my breath.

Eventually, Mr. Colt tipped his bowler hat at us and walked away.

"I heard gunshots," Casey said, glaring at the two of us as though we were at fault (which we were).

"Nobody's dead this time," I said. "But they're gonna limp after this."

"I don't even want to know. I'm getting you out of Chicago. You've caused enough trouble."

But when he reached for me, I dodged backward. "I can't," I said, and my voice sounded tinny, like it was coming through an old B-17 radio. I'd fixed so many back in the day, maybe it was fitting that I'd become one. I didn't know. Sarah was my guardian angel. Sarah had lied to me for years. Sarah was a spy.

I could feel her eyes on me, but all of a sudden, I couldn't look at her. How _much_ Sarah knew came into horrifying, startlingly clear focus. She'd seen the jovial, frustrated detective in the office and she'd saved the daredevil detective in the streets, but she'd never said a word. Hell, I'd waxed poetic about my savior _to her_ a time or two, and she hadn't given me any reaction, any clue that…

"What the hell you talkin' about, Carmichael, you can't? You damn well can. Get your skinny ass in the paddy-wagon like a good—"

"I can't," I said again, and dodged once more when Casey tried to reach for me again. Away. I needed to be away. I needed to get away and think. My stomach was burning and my leg hurt, my arm was seeping, and thoughts were coming too fast and too hard, like baseballs bulleted at me from a bat.

I looked at Sarah finally, and her face was stricken and pale.

"I can't," I said a third time, and started to stumble away. "Casey, get Ellie and Devon out of the city. I'll ring you when I can."

"Carmichael—"

"Chuck," Sarah said, reaching for me.

This time I nearly tripped while I was trying to get away from her. "No," I said. "No, don't. I—I—it's too much."

"I can explain," she said, looking desperate.

But all I could feel was the complete and total humiliation. How much of an idiot had I been this entire time? I hadn't even suspected it was Sarah. Me, the big city detective, who'd prided himself on being able to read people at first glance, and the woman I was closest to in my life had been lying to me for three years.

I'd been low before, but never so low as this.

So I looked at Ellie. "Sarah got shot," I said, the words sounding foreign on my tongue. "She needs a doctor to look at her." It was a dirty trick: I knew there wasn't any way Ellie would let Sarah simply walk away, and I didn't want her following me.

I left, feeling like an automaton walking down the avenue on mechanical legs, springs and gears whirring. My hat was crooked, my vest was ripped, and my coat was a mess, but I walked on, leaving the four of them behind. My legs carried me right up to the El station next to the hospital.

A train blustered its way onto the platform as I hopped over the turnstile. Fat raindrops started to fall from the sky, early October weather finally making itself known after a long stretch of balmy late summer. I stepped onto the train, but I didn't take a seat. Instead, I gripped the guide-bar, but the cold metal didn't draw me back into the moment. I saw the flash of bright blonde, the blue of Sarah's traveling blouse, as she raced up the stairs. I saw, quite objectively, the way she looked frantically about the platform.

Sarah's eyes found mine. Across the platform, we gazed at each other mutely as the doors closed between us, separating us for what felt like forever. With a rusty jerk, the train pulled away.

Sarah was my guardian angel. The entire time, it had been her.

The entire time, Sarah had been the one I'd been in love with, and I'd never had a clue.

Some detective I was.

* * *

**Frea's A/N the Second: **I wish I had something really pithy and witty to say here, but my heart's too busy breaking for these crazy kids. WILL THEY EVER WORK IT OUT? Too bad you're going to have to wait until Monday to find out! Need some incentive? This happens:

_"How'd you know it was me?" _

_I used the gun to gesture at the cigarette still burning in the ash tray. "Your cigarettes. I smelled them in the room."_


	13. The Double-Cross

**Frea's A/N the First**: So Sarah's secretly Russian, huh? How about that. A secret Russian. No, wait, Frea, that's way too cheesy, even for you* to put in a story.

**puppet!mxpw's A/N the First**: Again, gentle readers, my esteemed and lovely cowriter did not consult me as to what to put in my author's note, but I imagine that if I were writing this, I would extol the many virtues of Frea O'Scanlin and her fabulous wit. But since that would be longer than _Fates _and twice as thrilling, I'll just stick with thanking you for all of your support and reviews and speculation. Thanks also to our kickass beta team, **Steampunk Chuckster **and **quistie64**!

*If you think something is too cheesy for me to put in a story, you may have forgotten the thousands of horrible puns I slipped into _Fates that still make my beta reader groan to this day._

* * *

**The Double-Cross**

Time passed, but I had no means or way to judge it, so I let it slip by while I stared at nothing, swaying whenever the train lurched on the curves. Outside, the rain had brought a chill to the city, and I could see people with their smart business clothing scurrying for shelter or opening black umbrellas. It all felt disconnected. The murmuring of the other passengers in the car felt like it was miles away instead of right next to me. I'd heard talk of out-of-body experiences before, but I'd never experienced one myself. Not until now.

I couldn't believe it. Didn't want to believe it.

The train shuddered on the tracks, stopping at yet another station. How many had passed? Two? Three? I sucked in a sudden lungful of air and closed my eyes, forcing myself to breathe normally. I needed to look at this like I looked at my cases: dispassionately and objectively—or at least as much as I could manage under the circumstances.

Sarah being my angel all along made sense, when I thought about it. If I hadn't realized it before, I should have known the minute she said she'd been a spy. A voice in my head pointed out that I should have known a hell of a lot sooner, but I ignored that voice because it made me uncomfortable. Besides, if I acknowledged that point, I'd get bogged down on the same emotional path I was trying to escape.

I'd always wondered how my angel knew when I needed her help. I wasn't arrogant enough to think that she did nothing all day but follow me around, so there'd always been something in the back of my mind that insisted she had to be getting her information somewhere. And I'd been right. My angel had been getting information straight from me: Sarah had usually been the only person I told about where I was going or what I was doing on a case.

It all added up: the way she had moved while fighting off Colt and his men, the gun, the knives, the secret spy half-sister. But I shouldn't have needed all of those clues. I should have seen it right from the very first rescue, when she'd leaped down on a man trying to cut me from chin to belly and had beaten him to a pulp right in front of me. It shouldn't have taken me this long to see what was in front of me all this time.

And, oh God. She knew how I felt about the angel—her—whoever. I'd talked about it to her, like the idiot I truly was. I had never felt more humiliated and embarrassed in my life, and that was really saying something.

I tried to tell myself that it wasn't entirely my fault. Sarah had gone to an awful lot of trouble to hide her identity from me: the scarf around the hair, the mask, the accent. That drew me up short. Was the accent real or fake? Every instinct said Sarah really wasn't a secret Soviet spy, but I couldn't be sure, not anymore. She'd lied to me. She'd lied to me for a long time.

But I couldn't believe it. I knew Sarah. I'd worked with her for years. I'd laughed with her and teased her, and she'd done the same thing to me. I knew what kind of person she really was. So, clearly, she must have had her reasons. I might not understand them or wish they hadn't been necessary, but I knew they were there. Sarah would never do anything to actually hurt me, would she?

The same pesky voice came back, pointing out that I couldn't deny I cared for her. I'd missed her more than I would miss just any regular old secretary. I scrubbed my face with my hand, knowing I couldn't dwell on or even think about that right now. It was too confusing. The mysterious woman I thought I was maybe in love with was really the same woman who'd been my partner and closest friend for several years? It was too much to handle.

So I focused on something else, something I _could_ handle: the case. My biggest lead had turned up dead with a knife poking out of his back, but that didn't mean all hope was lost. It just meant I had a different killer to find—or maybe the same killer who had done in the Soviet. To find that killer, I needed to get back to the Monkey. Filled with purpose, finally, I disembarked and hailed a cab. It was using up money I didn't really want to spend, but it was less of a hassle. I had enough problems.

In the cab, I forced myself to relax and clear my mind. Everything about the case needed to fit into compartments. Sarah's duplicity and all of my feelings were firmly locked away in a vault, to be dealt with later, my frustration with Agent Shaw and his obvious corruption pushed to the side, all so I could focus on the one tenuous clue I had: the smell of cigarette smoke. It had been familiar to me, but the Broken Monkey was a popular place, especially at night, and I spent a lot of time there. It was going to be incredibly difficult to find the person I needed, but it was the only clue I had at the moment. And I wasn't going to leave the place until I found myself back on the right path. If I begged hard enough, Big Mike or Anna Wu would dispatch goons to protect me.

I had the taxi drop me off about a block away from the back entrance, Sarah's admonition about Shaw casing the joint ringing in my ears. I made my way to the alley, just like I had a few hours before. Morgan didn't pop out in surprise, so I made my way through the old tunnels, past the aged casks of whiskey and Big Mike's other fine malts, and up into the Monkey's basement. Old set decorations and costumes for the performers lay about in untidy piles. I knew this was where the performers lounged when they weren't on stage.

So I shouldn't have been surprised when I ran into Jill Roberts in the performers' dressing room, but I really hadn't expected to run into anybody I knew so soon. I still wasn't in the right headspace for dealing with anybody quite yet. Everything still felt too raw.

Jill started. "Chuck! What are you doing down here?"

"I didn't know you were performing tonight," I said, lamely. Something crawled down my spine and I wondered abstractly if it was one of the creepy crawly bugs that were attracted by the stores of booze, or if something was really wrong. I tilted my head a little.

Jill waved a hand and laughed, nervously, turning back to look at the bulb-lined mirror in which she'd been fixing her make-up. It seemed caked on a little heavier than usual. "Big Mike asked me to come in special," she said, and paused to paint a line of lipstick around her lips. She smacked them together. "He said he expected a big crowd. How did...how did you even get down here? Miss Wu guards the door like a lion."

"I came in the back way," I said, jerking my thumb over my shoulder.

"Oh, I didn't think of that." Jill picked up a mascara wand. It shook a little, and for some reason, I couldn't help but stare at it. I don't know why it fascinated me so. "Wait, why is it that you would need to use the back entrance? Is everything okay? I thought you were just looking for a fellow."

I hesitated. Unbidden, Sarah rose to the front of my mind. She'd messed me up so bad, I knew, that even though Jill was right in front of me, all I could think about was that Sarah was my guardian angel. And, funnily enough, that Sarah had never liked or trusted Jill. I'd never understood why. I just figured one of them had committed some sin I never picked up on and had let sleeping dogs lie. I hadn't ever really gathered the courage to ask either of them about the animosity.

But I thought about it now, and that was when it hit me. That was when the thing crawling down my spine and sitting in my gut congealed into a horrible, oily blob.

Jill was smoking.

The smell from the cigarettes was just like the smell I had picked up from Bryce's body.

I went for my gun before I had even made the conscious decision to do so. Jill reacted almost as fast. If it hadn't been for my head start, I might not have stopped her in time.

"Don't," I said, gun out. Jill stopped mid-lunge. She'd been going for her clutch, and it made me sick to wonder what was inside. Was it a gun? Did she plan on shooting me? What was going on? "I really don't want any more trouble. So, please, just...don't."

Jill settled back in her seat, face schooled to give nothing away. I carefully moved forward and grabbed her clutch, pulling out a two-shot derringer. It made me want to sigh, but I just slipped it in my pocket.

Was every woman in my life a liar?

"How'd you know it was me?" Jill asked.

I used the gun to gesture at the cigarette still burning in the ash tray. "Your cigarettes. I smelled them in the room."

"That could have been anybody." Jill's dark eyes never left my face. The light from her vanity wreathed her like some kind of angel, but if she was, it was a dark angel, brought up from the depths of hell. She'd either killed Bryce Larkin, or she'd been there when he had kicked the bucket. A sense of horror and disgust settled over the oily blob in my gut.

"Could have been," I said. I thought about seeing her earlier, suspecting nothing, and insight struck me hard between the eyes. "But it wasn't. It occurs to me now only one person had a chance to see me read Bryce's note. And only one person got close enough to me to pilfer it from my pocket while I helped her with her coat. Why, Jill? Why'd you do it?"

Jill didn't answer to a long moment. She turned away from me, but I could see her in the vanity mirror, the yellow light falling on her bared shoulders. She kept her head bowed, her eyes on her folded hands in front of her. Everything about her seemed to go still for a moment, like she was trying to capture herself as a photograph in time.

And then, without warning, her shoulders slumped. "Tell me something, Chuck."

"If I can," I said, since we had history.

"You ever wonder why I disappeared all those years ago?"

I always had, but asking had seemed rude, and Jill had never seemed to want to offer an explanation. I shrugged. "I thought something bad had happened to you, that you were in trouble, of course. Or you wanted to get out of town. You came back when I found you, though, so I figured whatever it was, you'd gotten over it."

"You can't get over it. Once they get their hooks in you, they never let you go."

"Who are you talking about, Jill?"

"I ran for a reason." Jill looked up now, but not at me. Instead, she stared at her reflection, and I saw nothing but defeat on her features. "I ran because I wanted so badly not to be the person they made me into. I tried to get away."

"Jill, I don't understand. Who had their hooks in you? If you're in trouble, maybe I can help you."

"You actually did me a favor that day, Chuck," Jill said and now it seemed like she wasn't even listening to me. "You helped me realize that you can't run from who you really are." She stood abruptly, and I took a cautionary step backward. "This is who I really am, Chuck. This is what I really do."

"So what, you work for the Bishop? The Soviets? Who?"

She sighed and I could finally see some kind of regret in her eyes. "You're a good guy, Chuck. You always did right by me."

"Then let me help you now, Jill." I wasn't sure what I could do for her, but maybe if she was willing to talk to Casey, they might be able to come to some sort of agreement. Certainly it would be better for her in the long run if she turned herself in. "Just tell me who they are. I can help."

"You can't help me, Chuck. Not anymore."

I studied Jill, really studied her, and I was struck by how rough she looked under the makeup. There were dark smudges under eyes, smudges she had been in the process of covering up before I had interrupted her. Her hair lacked the usual luster I had always admired when she was on stage. Basically she looked like I did, which made me realize just how much of a toll this whole Bryce Larkin affair was taking on the people around me.

Jill picked up the cigarette. When she lifted it to her lips, her hand was shaking. I focused on the glowing ember. "I know you searched the body," I said, remembering the sick feeling in my stomach at seeing so much blood around Bryce's lifeless body. The casual, indifferent way his body had just been left there, tossed aside once it had divulged all of its secrets to his killer. "What did you find?"

Given the way our conversation had gone, I wasn't expecting an answer. I wanted to see her reaction to my comment, to see if she gave anything away. A person's nonverbal actions could tell you more than words every time, so when Jill's eyes slid briefly to a wooden box sitting on the corner of her vanity, I _knew_. Maybe the action was even deliberate. I didn't know, but I did grab the box, snatching it away from Jill. Jill's hand twitched, as though she'd considered trying to stop me, but I kept my gun trained on her.

I thumbed open the sliding top of the box, keeping one eye on Jill. There was something heavy and metal inside, a piece of machinery that looked like nothing I'd ever seen before. It wasn't big—about the side of my hand, maybe a little longer, but it was covered in wires and parts I didn't recognize.

This must be the Machine everybody and his brother was trying to get his hands on.

"What is it?" I asked, just to be sure.

Jill sagged once more. "It's called the Omega Machine. I was told to retrieve it and bring it here. Tonight." She looked directly at me. "I don't know anything more. I don't know what it does, what it is, or if it's even complete. They don't tell me those things."

I couldn't figure out her angle. She had clearly wanted me to find the box, but why? Was it an elaborate plot to throw me off the scent of something else? Or had she meant for me to find it all along? She had no way of knowing I was going to be coming to the Monkey tonight. She had no way of knowing I'd run into her in the basement. I was inclined to think she was on the level, and that for whatever reason, she was trying to help me.

That only made me want to help her even more, I realized. A cynical part of me pointed out maybe that was her whole plan all along.

Still, there was only so much I could do. "I have to turn you in, Jill. I can't—I mean, I can't just let you go. You _murdered_ somebody."

"And that's why I've always liked you, Chuck. You always try to do the right thing. That's why I never got mad at you for bringing me back, even though all I ever wanted was to disappear." Jill leaned forward and put on the finishing touches of her makeup, like I wasn't standing near her with a gun. "But I'm not going to go with you. I've said all I'm going to say."

I wanted to point out that it wasn't exactly her choice, that I was the one with the gun, but Bunny the cigarette girl popped through the opposite doorway. I glanced over for just a split second and Jill rushed out of her chair, springing at Bunny. By the time I was cognizant of her ploy, she was too close to Bunny for me to risk firing. Bunny shrieked as Jill shoved her to one side, dashing past.

"Mr. Carmichael, why do you have a gun?" she said, looking pale. "Are you going to shoot me?"

I put the gun away. "No," I said, and stepped past her just in time to see the last of Jill as she raced up the steps and around the corner. I could give chase, but my leg hurt and she was fast. I'd never catch her. She'd helped me, in her own way. I fixed the box securely under my arm and left the Broken Monkey the same way I'd came in.

Great. Now there were two women in my life that had been lying to me all along. This day was just getting better and better.

* * *

It wasn't smart to go back to my office, but since it had already been tossed and I'd been back once with no incident, I figured it was likely one of the last places anybody would look for me. Besides, I needed a familiar place to just sit down and think and maybe take a look at the Machine I now had.

I had been something of an inventor during the War. Little things, usually to help with communication and encryption, and I'd always enjoyed it. It was one of the reasons why I had become a private detective after the war ended. I enjoyed puzzles; taking things apart, figuring out how they worked, and putting them back together. I didn't get to do it as much now as I used to, but I still kept a few things around the office that I liked to tinker with when I was in-between cases. Sarah had always shaken her head at my hobby, but I remember she had smiled fondly, too.

Sarah. Just thinking about her made me hurt.

Jill had killed Bryce Larkin.

Somebody had saved me at the docks. Carina had claimed no knowledge of it, Sarah had seemed genuinely surprised when she discovered I'd been shot, and I was convinced the person I'd seen running away from the scene had been a man. That made the likely suspects Bryce and the dead Russian spy. My gut said it was the Russian, which led to a whole different can of worms.

Because somebody had killed the Russian and I didn't know who. I didn't think it was Jill. Something told me she'd have confessed to it if it had been her. Carina continued to protest her innocence. The way Sarkoloff had been killed made me think of the Bishop.

So I potentially had the most dangerous criminal boss in Chicago facing off against the Soviets and me, the Soviets using me like a canary in a coal mine, Shaw hounding my every step, and a secretary who moonlighted as a masked vigilante.

It was clear I had my work cut out for me.

I stepped into my office cautiously. Although I didn't think anybody would be there, I wasn't taking any chances. When I saw nobody in the front office, I sighed in relief and quickly made my way to my office proper.

I pulled up short. Somebody actually was there.

"It's about time you showed up, doll. I've been waiting for you."

* * *

**Frea's A/N the Second**: Oh, Jill, you rascal. Want incentive to come back on Wednesday? This happens:

_"So I guess I have some explaining to do."_

_I peeled off my jacket and hung it neatly on the peg, taking the time to square away the edges. "I'd say that's a fair conclusion."_

_"Where do you want me to start?"_

_"Why?" I asked, taking off my hat. "Why seems like a really good place to start."_

_Sarah let out a long sigh. "It's a long story."_

_"I got nowhere to be."_


	14. My Guardian Angel

**mxpw's A/N the First: **No regular A/N from me today. No, I'm going to use this space to wish my friend and co-writer a very happy birthday! She is a very special person, and one of a kind too. ;-) I count myself pretty lucky to know her, and fortunate that I have the opportunity to call her friend. I hope you guys all take a little bit out of your day to let her know how much you appreciate her and her benevolence! Hey, **Frea**, you are almost as old as I am now. :P

**Frea's A/N the First: **I'm taking the day off from writing A/Ns. It's my birthday. I DO WHAT I WANT.

* * *

**My Guardian Angel**

Some things are just old habits.

"Yes, well, you know," I said before my brain and mouth really communicated on what my reaction to Sarah sitting in my chair with her heels up on my desk should logically be, "some of us have to work for a living around here. You think this luxury comes free?"

Sarah snorted. She'd changed out of the traveling clothes, back into the regular skirt and blouse that she'd always worn as my secretary, day in and day out, and her hair was back in the twist that I'd always loved. How had I never noticed? There was such an inherent grace to her movements all the time. She was lithe, and beautiful, and had always been too good for me. I'd never thought I'd had a chance with her. And in the meantime, she'd been dressing up every night in a scarf and dark clothing and following me to every seedy joint in Chicago, usually saving my hide in the process.

I simply looked at her; she stared back, and the mood settled into a sober air. Around us, the trashed office seemed to hold its breath so that even the papers shredded on the floor felt like they were waiting for somebody to make a move, to say something, to break out of this locked moment we'd stumbled into together.

Sarah finally broke the stillness by leaning forward and picking up the cherished Cubbies' ball. "So I guess I have some explaining to do."

I peeled off my jacket and hung it neatly on the peg, taking the time to square away the edges. "I'd say that's a fair conclusion."

"Where do you want me to start?"

"_Why_?" I asked, taking off my hat. "_Why_ seems like a really good place to start."

Sarah let out a long sigh. "It's a long story."

"I got nowhere to be."

Sarah placed the Cubbies ball back on the desk and said, "I guess it really started when I answered Ellie's ad in the paper. Do you remember that day?"

I smiled, partly out of embarrassment, but mostly out of affection. "How could I forget? I was so unprepared. The place was a mess. I was a mess."

Sarah looked around and gave me one of her slow smiles, the smiles that I had grown to really appreciate over the years. "Not much has changed, it seems." The smile quickly faded. "And I think that was the problem, Chuck. Too much was staying the same for me. That's why," Sarah paused and took a deep breath, "that's why I left like I did."

"I don't understand, Sarah. What does that have to do with...well, everything? Why were you pretending to be..." I stopped talking. It suddenly seemed so silly to refer to my guardian angel like she was a different person, like she wasn't the same woman sitting in my chair.

"I—During the war it was different, you know? I mean for me as a woman. I could be a spy, and nobody cared, because everybody had to do their part. But after the war, when we had to all come home..." For a second, a look of abject misery crossed Sarah's face, and it hurt me inside. "They warned us it would be different, that there would be a period of adjustment. At least, the smarter ones did. My bosses didn't care much—we were just women, we had no value. Once the men came home, women were nothing but housewives again."

"That's a foolish assumption to make," I said, thinking about Ellie and how she'd worked her way up the company ladder at Our Lady of the Lilies and had fought to keep that job.

"It is, but..." Sarah tossed the ball from one hand to the other. "So I was prepared to deal with being nothing but a pretty face again. I had some skills, but I couldn't tell anybody about them, so I wasn't qualified for much but working as a secretary. I wasn't planning to stay long."

"When I hired you? But we made such a good team."

"You couldn't afford me, Chuck. You were barely making enough to keep your head above water, much less take me on. And I was restless all the time. Nobody told me I would come to miss it."

I knew of the men who'd gone to the front lines, fighting in the trenches, who had preferred it to the quiet life. Most of us had been happy to leave and leave in a hurry. But there were stories of the men—and women, apparently, for Sarah was sitting right in front of me—who had a taste for battle and who hadn't gotten enough. Again, I'd had no idea that my ex-secretary had been anything but a nurse in the war, but looking at her now, as honest as I'd ever seen her, it made a little bit of sense. I sat down slowly in the chair across from my desk, Sarah's words weighing heavily on me.

"Then why did you stay?" I asked, not bothering to deny that I'd been poor back then. I'd been lucky to have two dimes to rub together most nights, all told.

"I nearly left a couple, maybe four times. I had an apartment I kept up—you remember, the one up in the Gold Coast area? That cheap little place?—and I did my best to fit in and just be like everybody else. I got a cat."

"You had a cat?" That this would surprise me almost as much as her revelation that she'd been beating up thugs on my behalf for years made me feel absurd.

Sarah's lips flattened into an annoyed line. "He ran away."

"I'm sorry to hear that. You should have found a detective to look for him. I hear there's a decent one in the book."

"He was probably better off without me, actually. And I was so close on going back to the OSS, joining Carina again even though they'd made me do awful things during the War, but...do you remember Lev Youngman?"

It took me a minute to sort through the files in my memory, trying to bring up a name to the face. "The bookie who said his boss was stiffing him? We solved that case."

"And you're lucky to have survived it." Sarah looked at me, pointedly, and I was suddenly reminded of grammar school, sitting in the back hunched over while my teacher berated me for not having done the reading. "You went to talk to Ted Roark on your own. You _dummkopf_."

"And?" I asked, startled to hear her speak German so naturally, even if it was to insult me. "Roark's a business man."

"He was a thug. He had dealings with my father, I know his type. You told me you were just going to ask him some questions. Just waltz in and start asking Ted Roark, Fulcrum King of Chicago, questions. It was like you have no self-preservation instincts whatsoever, Chuck."

The anger was starting to rankle a bit, so I uncrossed my feet at the ankles and sat up, resting my elbows on the arms of the chair so I could straighten up more. "Now, you wait just a minute. I got all of the answers I was looking for, and Mr. Roark never so much as hurt a hair on my head."

Sarah rolled her eyes at me. "Because I was in the back-alley beating up the three men he'd paid to jump you when you left, _cafone_."

She'd switched from German to Italian and both accents were flawless, but I was too busy gaping at her to really register anything significant about that. "Say what?"

"That was the first time I had to save you from landing in hot water. And the first time I felt like myself since the War."

"But...but why not just _tell_ me?"

"Because I was afraid about what you'd think, okay? Because all you ever seemed to see me as was your secretary and I wasn't sure if you'd understand or not."

"Sarah," I started to say, the overwhelming need to object nearly making me blurt out my words in a giant rush. I knew most men probably wouldn't have understood, but I didn't think I had ever given the impression that I would be one of them. Certainly not with Ellie in my life.

Sarah looked upset, but I didn't think it was because of me. "I know that was stupid, Chuck. I _know_ that. I don't really think that about you. You've always treated me with respect and seen me as an equal and valued me as a partner. I mean, there were times where I wished you had seen me differently, I will admit, but not about this. At the time I just didn't think I could risk it, risk losing that connection to my old life, so I hid it from you. And after a while, it just seemed easier to keep it a secret. Until, _it_ happened."

I don't think it was possible for me to feel more confused or overwhelmed by what Sarah was telling me. "It? What are you talking about?"

"Until you came back to the office one night and all you could talk about was her. The mystery woman that saved you. About how she was so amazing and interesting and was always looking out for you and how all I could feel was that I was just the boring secretary that sat in your office waiting for you to come back."

I gaped at Sarah. "But, Sarah, that was you!"

"But you didn't know that," Sarah said, and I could hear the frustration in her voice. "Do you know how frustrating it is to have to compete with yourself?"

"Compete with yourself? But why would you have to compete..." I fell back into my chair in shock at the realization. "Sarah, are you saying you have feelings for me?"

"No," Sarah said. She scowled and folded her arms over her chest, giving me a stern look. "I have feelings for some other handsome detective I've been saving repeatedly from getting his face punched in by Chicago's most notorious low-lifes."

"Now, hold on—" I drew back. Amazingly, only one thought flitted to the surface. My hand went unconsciously to my tie, tidying up the knot. "You really think I'm handsome?"

Sarah spread her hands wide to give me the most exasperated look I'd ever received from a woman.

"Sorry—no, really, sorry. It just—I never thought I had a single chance with you, Angel or not. You're the most stunning dame I've ever seen."

"Pardon my language, Chuck, but why the hell not? I'm a person, too, and even though you've got faults, I liked you from the start. I liked you a lot. You've got a good heart, and you care about people. What's not to like?"

I could name a whole list of things. Women hadn't exactly been lining up around the block to step out with me. "You really liked me?" I asked instead.

"I don't know how to spell this out any better," Sarah said, "but—"

"I'm in love with you," I blurted out. I stood up, though I had no idea why. Sarah continued to sit at my desk, gaping up at me with her mouth open in shock. "And I'm an idiot. I know that. I should have realized, but you have to understand, I never thought I had a single chance with you. Not a single chance, Sarah."

"But you thought you had one with the angel?" Sarah pushed herself to her feet, warily.

I shook my head resolutely. "Didn't think I had a shot with her, either, if we're telling the truth. Always thought she—you were one of the greatest things in my life. And now I find out you're the same person. If we're doing the math, that would make you twice as great."

"Or half as great." Sarah stepped around the desk and poked me in the chest with a finger.

The grin hurt my face, it came on so swiftly and in such force. "One thing you've never been able to best me at is math, Sarah Walker. Or Wechsler?"

"Walker," she said, firmly.

"I feel so foolish, that I didn't see it before. Humiliated."

"What? Chuck, no! I mean, I can't say I'm happy it took you this long, but you're a good man, Chuck and—"

Before I really knew what I was doing, I stepped forward and I kissed Sarah Walker. It wasn't something I would have had the courage to do even just that morning, probably. But it felt right. Sarah stiffened in surprise, her hands gripping the front of my shirt, and my brain went blissfully and happily silent for the first time all day. I could taste peppermint on her lips.

It was the greatest moment of my life.

When I drew back to grin at her, she blinked several times. My brain chose that time to wake up and inform me that she might slap me—Morgan had more than his fair share of stories that ended this way—but instead, a grin bloomed on her face that was almost as bright as the one hurting my cheeks. Her hands clutched the material of my shirt before I could step back.

"So that's how it is, huh?" she asked, laughter in her voice.

"Yes ma'am."

"Good. Finally." She pulled me close again.

This time it was Sarah that kissed me. I happily went along with her plan, and for several seconds, lost all track of anything and everything except for the feel of Sarah's lips on mine. Finally she pulled away, and it was all I could do to focus on something other than her.

"I'm sorry for lying to you, Chuck," Sarah said, her voice low and breathy. "I never meant for it to get out of hand like that. I should have told you what was bothering me instead of just leaving like I did."

"It's," I had to stop and swallow slowly, trying to find my powers of speech. "It's okay, Sarah, I think I understand. I just wish I'd seen things sooner."

Sarah took a step back and gave me a firm nod. "So do I, and I'd like nothing more than to keep doing what we're doing," and I was amazed at the way she couldn't stop staring at my mouth, "but we should probably talk about the case."

"Right, the case." I didn't really want to talk about the case anymore. But Sarah was right.

"So, uh, I ran into Jill earlier." I pinched the bridge of my nose as I tried to sort it all out. "Bad news: she was responsible for killing Larkin."

"That just figures."

"What?"

The scowl that overtook Sarah's face was truly a sight to behold. "I never did like her."

"So you suspected her of murder?"

"Of course not. I just didn't like her."

I turned around and looked for the box with the Omega Machine part in it. Where had I set that? "Yes, I never understood that," I said, finally spotting it at the foot of my chair. I picked it up.

When I turned back to Sarah, a faint blush colored her cheeks. "That's really not important right now, Chuck. What's in the box?"

As much as I wanted to prod at Sarah's dislike—up until an hour before, I'd never suspected there was anything about Jill to dislike—the case had to come first. Ellie was in protective custody, the Bishop was out for our blood, Jill's people wouldn't wait long to come after us. In that moment, it felt like the entirety of Chicago was looking over my shoulder, waiting for me to screw up. So I opened the box and pulled out the part, exposing it to the light. It took a little bit to clear some of the clutter from the desk so that I could set it down. "She got away, but she gave me this. It's part of something called the Omega Machine. Or at least that's what Jill called it. Do you know anything about it?"

"It looks complex." Sarah frowned, but didn't touch the gizmo. "The best I can think of is some old rumors floating around about a special encryption/decryption machine. They were working on it right before I left, trying to replace you codebreakers. It was supposed to work like a brain, but I always thought it was just rumors."

"And if it's not just rumors?"

"Then I can understand why so many people are after it. It'd be worth a lot of money, Chuck."

"It's not complete," I said, prodding at a hole toward the edge. "It looks like something's meant to be inserted here. Possibly a key."

"Bryce didn't have a key on him." Sarah frowned.

"No, he had this. But...my office is the one that got tossed. So somebody thought I had this device or somebody thought I had the key to it."

"But who?"

"And why did Bryce single me out if he didn't know you?"

"My reputation, probably."

I raised an eyebrow at that.

Sarah straightened her sleeve, primly. "I _was_ quite successful in the OSS, I'll have you know. Bryce could have heard about me from one of my colleagues and decided I was far enough removed from the organization."

I skirted around her and dropped into my desk chair, plopping my feet up on the desk. This time, I was the one to pick up the baseball and toss it from hand to hand. "He needed more of a reason than that, I think. I mean, I'm good—"

Sarah snorted. I gave her a long-suffering sigh.

"—and you're great, but it's still a big leap to come to Chicago for just the two of us. There's somebody else in Chicago."

"Or the machine is actually from here." Sarah frowned at it once more and finally poked at it. It wobbled a little on the desk, looking mighty unassuming for a device that had caused three deaths in the same number of days. "Maybe whoever built it is from Chicago. It's not a stretch to imagine that, right?"

I mulled it over in my mind. "That sounds likely. But what changed?"

"What?"

"You can't build a machine like this overnight. If whoever built it was in Chicago this whole time, it must have leaked somewhere, or something happened to the scientist."

Sarah opened her mouth to say something but never followed through. She sprang up out of her chair and glided across my office to the doorway. I was very perplexed to say the least, but I was already beginning to trust her instincts, so I reached inside my jacket for my gun.

Unsurprisingly, it was unnecessary, for Sarah had already caught the rat outside my door. I watched as she dragged in a short man by his collar. She unceremoniously pushed him into the chair I had been occupying earlier, and quickly searched him. From his pockets she pulled a revolver that had seen better days and a pair of brass knuckles.

I vaguely recognized the man as one of the Bishop's hatchetmen, but not one of the important ones. He was certainly no Colt or Delgado, that was for sure, especially if he had been so easily caught. I was surprised to see him, though. I would have thought if anybody from the Bishop's organization had come knocking on my door, they'd be doing so to send me to meet my maker, not eavesdrop on my conversations.

"What are you doing here?" I asked.

The man crossed his arms in front of his chest. "I ain't saying nothin'."

"Did you hear that, Sarah? He ain't saying nothin'."

Sarah snorted and I watched as a predatory gleam settled in her eyes. It made me very grateful that I wasn't on the business end of that look. "I heard. It's too bad we don't have the time to ask him nicely."

The man sneered and glared at Sarah defiantly. "I ain't scared of no broad."

I felt my blood boil at the man's words, but Sarah just ignored him. "Don't worry, Chuck. If I could make war-hardened Nazi spies talk, he'll be a cakewalk." Sarah pulled a knife from…somewhere. I peered at her closely, studying her, but her attention was focused completely on the man in my chair. "After all, a man really only needs a couple of fingers to make it through life."

I would have laughed at the way the man's eyes went comically wide at the sight of Sarah's knife, or the way fear quickly replaced bravado in the man's voice, but truthfully, I was a little frightened myself. And intrigued. I think there was something wrong with me.

"Hey, lady, what the hell do you think you're doing?"

Sarah reached out and forcefully plied one of the man's hands free.

"Hey, leave me alone!" The man tried to pull his hand back, but Sarah was too strong for him. This time, I was amused when the man looked up at me like I was some kind of savior. "Tell her to stop it!"

I just shook my head. "Sorry, man, but does she look like the kind of person who does what I say?" I placed my hand on his shoulder and pressed down with the slightest pressure, just to let him know he'd get no help from me. "If I were you, I'd start talking. She seems pretty serious to me."

I couldn't help but shake an overwhelming case of déjà vu as I saw Sarah slowly move her knife toward the man's fingers. They really were sisters.

"Okay," the man said, "okay! I'll talk!"

Sarah let the man's hand free and disappeared her knife. I wanted to see where she put it, but I kept my focus on the man in the chair. "What are you doing here? Who do you work for?"

The man looked on the verge of pouting, but mumbled, "Mr. Karpazzo sent me. Told me I was to follow ya, see if you learned anything, and then report back to him."

"And?" Sarah asked, poking him in the shoulder with her finger.

"And nothin'," the man said. "I ain't got nothin' else to say. That's all I was supposed to do."

"I don't believe you," I said. I looked at Sarah and said, "I think he needs more persuasion."

"You know, I think you're right." Sarah slowly moved her hand closer to her dress.

"Wait," the man said, blurting out his words in a rush, "I swear that's all! The boss, he don't care about you right now. I mean, he ain't thrilled you killed Mr. Delgado, but the boss, he said he was getting uppity lately so you did him a favor."

I straightened up and so did Sarah. The Bishop wasn't after me for killing his man? Really? That was very surprising.

The man kept talking, sounding more and more eager to please. "The boss, he's got some mook, some reporter, that's got all his attention right now. The boss said he'd deal with you later, when he was done with whatever he was doing. I was just supposed to keep an eye on you, I swear!"

"He seemed to mind earlier when he sent three goons after me at Our Lady of the Lilies," I said.

Sweat started to bead on the man's forehead. "That was all Mr. Colt. The boss, he weren't too pleased. Said he didn't have time to care that you had killed his friend."

If the Bishop really didn't care that I—well, Sarah—had killed Tommy Delgado, and Colt really was going off the reservation, then this could be the kind of opportunity I had been waiting for.

"Please, mister, I got a woman. And a kid. He's maybe not mine, but I'm tryin' to raise him right, I am. I don' wanna have to go back to the boss like this. Can't you give me _something_?"

"Your kid's gonna look at his one-eared dad funny all his life if you don't shut your trap."

I snorted and had to clamp my lips down to keep from laughing at Sarah's comment. She was enjoying herself maybe a little too much. "Tell me more about the reporter and I'll consider helping you out," I said.

The man nodded eagerly and said, "I don't know why the boss is interested in him, he don't tell me stuff like that. Just that he works for the Trib and was named Moran or Morlen or Morgan or something like that. Now that's everything I know."

I felt myself go cold all over and everything faded but the realization that the Bishop had Morgan. The Bishop had my best friend and was trying to extract information from him. I knew what the Bishop did to people he wanted information from; I'd almost been on the receiving end of it myself the other night.

"Chuck!"

I saw the concerned look on Sarah's face. "What?"

"Chuck, stop," she said, and it wasn't till then that I realized I had grabbed ahold of the man's shirt. I quickly let go and now it seemed the man was more afraid of me than Sarah.

"You're saying the Bishop has this man?" Sarah asked. "Right now, the Bishop has him?"

"Yes'm, he does. I swear."

Sarah turned away from the man in the chair and faced me. "Chuck, it's going to be okay. We're going to save Morgan, I promise."

I shook myself free from the horrible images plaguing my mind and said with determination, "You're damn right we are."

* * *

**Frea's A/N the Second: **Next chapter will be up on Tuesday! That's right, I'm making you wait six days this time. EVIL FREA STRIKES AGAIN.

_Roan made a _hmm _noise. "Haven't we killed him yet?" he asked Mrs. Beckman._

_"Not for lack of trying."_

_"Or at least arrested him?"_

_"Again, no, Captain."_

You're still way older_ t_han me, Maximus. ;)


	15. Gathering the Troops

**Frea's A/N the First: **I keep doing this awful thing where I forget to ask **mxpw **for an A/N to put at the beginning of the chapter, so I'll just thank anybody who's read, anybody who's reviewed, and our awesome beta team, **Steampunk Chuckster **and **quistie64**. Did everybody see that the great and glorious **q **has finished her short story, _Chuck vs. the Sound of Music II_? Should only take you about half an hour to read if you haven't started the story yet. I recommend it! And **Steampunk Chuckster **is back to work at _Chuck vs. the Con Game. _You should go read that (but after this chapter. What? I'm vain). Damn but we have some fine talent in this fandom.

**mxpw's A/N the First**: **Frea**, I will have my revenge.

**Frea's A/N the Second: **Sure you will, puppet!**mxpw**. Sure you will.

* * *

**Gathering the Troops**

It wasn't a secret to anybody in the Windy City that Morgan Grimes was my best friend, but the Bishop knew better than most.

He'd found out more or less by accident. It had been on one of my first cases, back before Ellie had placed the ad in the paper "on my behalf," and I'd met Sarah. I'd been on the hunt for corruption down by the docks, paid for by a Mr. Moses Finkelstein up in Evanston who was worried a few of his workers were getting stiffed on their paychecks. Morgan, thinking there might be a story to get him out of the inking room at the Trib, had tagged along on my heels, following me from source to source. Our ending up in the Lazarus Room for the very first time had almost seemed like fate: we'd wanted a drink after a long day, some of the dock workers were headed that way, and the Lazarus Room had looked as good a place as any to wet a man's throat after an honest night's work of sniffing out corruption.

Little had we realized at the time what sort of trouble we were stepping into. In fact, we might actually not have known we were in a notorious crime-lord's den of iniquity had Morgan not decided to start something with the bartender. I hadn't been able to afford new shoes, much less good alcohol—and Morgan was worse, as he was supporting his sickly mother—and the mook behind the bar charged us two dollars for a beer each.

"Highway robbery!" Morgan had said, and if I hadn't been there, I imagined he might have thrown that beer right in the barman's face. I'd hauled him back, but it had been too late: before we knew it, we were being dragged to the back room, taken in to see a "Mistah Karpazzo, owner of this fine establishment."

He was two weeks out from killing his boss, and making his name synonymous with crime in the city of Chicago, but we hadn't known that at the time. Instead, I'd been too busy apologizing, hat in hand, to the soft-voiced man darkly back-lit by the back room.

We'd gotten off with a warning. Maybe he liked us, I don't know, but either way, that was our first encounter, and ever since, the Bishop's known that Morgan and I've always been as thick as thieves.

Something felt wrong, though, as I rested my hands heavily against the desk and stared at Sarah and the weasel tied to the chair. The Bishop had Morgan, but why? The weasel had just said that Colt was the one who had a beef with me, not Karpazzo. And Morgan wasn't even connected to any of the power players here. He wasn't with Carina and the CIA, he definitely had no love for the Feds or the Soviets, and the only reason he was ever really interesting to the Bishop was through me. So what was I missing?

"Chuck?" Sarah asked, peering at me. "You've got that look on your face."

"What look?"

"The one that says your brain's working full speed. Where's your head at?"

"On my shoulders," I said, rubbing the back of my neck. "Does something feel strange about this to you? Why Morgan? I mean, he's a Tribune inker who chases conspiracies that he mostly makes up himself. I mean, I love the guy. He has his faults and all, but just the other day, I dropped by to see him and he was staring at a building. Not exactly a mastermind."

"I could beat it out of this rat, if you like," Sarah said, placing a hand on the weasel's shoulder.

The man went even paler, if that was at all possible. "I don't know nothing! I don't know _nothing_! Please, make her stop."

Both Sarah and I gave him a long look.

"No," I said. I could feel panic rising like a tidal wave, chanting _He's got Morgan, He's got Morgan_ in my head. "Apparently, he don't know nothing."

"I'm sure some trauma to the head might shake new memories loose." Sarah's face was deceptively pleasant as she said this.

The man whimpered pitifully.

I felt like doing the same. The Bishop had my best friend and I couldn't think of why.

Wait. The building. Morgan had been staring at a building when I'd talked to him the other day. He'd been there because...

I burst into action, rifling through the papers on my desk, and ignoring the bewildered looks from both Sarah and the other man.

"Chuck? What are you doing?"

"Where is it?" I said, and for once, wished I had listened to Sarah more about keeping my office neat. Finally I found the paper from the other day, and I practically tore the papers to shreds as I flipped through them for the relevant article. "Found it!"

"Found what?"

I threw the paper onto my desk and shook my head at Sarah. I walked up to the weasel in the chair and pulled him to his feet. "Alright, time for you to go." I started to escort him out of my office, Sarah taking hold of his other arm. "Some friendly advice, pal? Pick another line of work, you're not very good at this one." And together, Sarah and I pushed him out of the office and into the hallway.

He looked like he might turn around and fight his way back, but one look from Sarah stopped him in his tracks. I was already on my way back inside, Sarah soon following on my heels.

"What was that all about, Chuck?"

I picked up the paper and tapped at the article about the mysterious death of Dr. Busgang. "Right here. This is why Morgan was casing the McCallister building. He was convinced that this Busgang's death wasn't so cut and dry."

"Did you say Busgang?"

"Yeah. Why, do you know him?"

"Not personally, no, but I remember hearing his name a lot right before I left the OSS. He was apparently some kind of communications expert. Like you."

I almost couldn't believe it. It looked like one of Morgan's crazy conspiracy theories was actually right for once, and it was probably going to get him killed. I couldn't let that happen. I wouldn't let that happen.

Sarah put the paper back on my desk and squeezed my arm. "Chuck, what do you want to do? We should call Sergeant Casey."

"I think you're right, Sarah, but that's not enough. I think I have an idea." I smiled at her then, but I know I didn't feel it, and it probably looked more like a grimace than anything else.

I reached across my desk and picked up my telephone. I placed it up to my ear and blinked when I heard a faint click. It was something just about everybody else would have either ignored or never noticed, but I had spent the last years of the War doing nothing but listening to, breaking, and studying communications. I knew when a phone line was being monitored, when somebody else was listening.

Good, I thought, the more invited to the party, the better.

I placed the telephone back in its cradle. "The line's tapped."

"What?"

"My phone line, it's tapped. It's gotta be Shaw or the Soviets. This isn't the Bishop's style."

Sarah nodded her head slowly, like she was parsing my words. "Are you sure?"

"Trust me, I'm sure."

"Okay, I believe you, but that does complicate things. What were you going to do?"

"Call the Bishop. Make a trade."

"Chuck, no. I want to save Morgan as much as you, but we can't give something like the Omega Machine to a man like the Bishop."

I ran a hand through my hair, undoubtedly messing it all up. "I know, believe me, I get it. I remember what technology like this can do in the wrong hands. But—" I placed my hand back on the telephone. "But I have an idea. Something crazy, but I think it could work."

The wary look on Sarah's face made me reconsider if what I was thinking of doing was the right course of action, but it was the only idea I could think of, the only way I could get everybody chasing after me in one place. I smiled again at Sarah, and this time I knew it was more genuine. "I think it's time we called checkmate on the Bishop."

I could see Sarah fight a smile, but eventually it won out, even if it did come with a slight roll of her eyes.

That gave me the confidence I needed to dial the operator and say, "Hello, operator? I'd like the number for the Lazarus Room, please."

* * *

My shirt collar felt stiff and constrictive, but I knew tugging at it would only earn me a reproachful look from Sarah, so I kept my hands by my sides. A time or two, I reached for my pocket watch, only to remember that it was currently keeping some lucky cabbie company instead of me. So I had nothing to do but wait and try not to fiddle about, while the desk sergeant glared at me and Sarah, who was apparently unaffected by the bustle of a police station all around us, calmly reading through the rest of the edition of the _Tribune_ that contained the article on Dr. Busgang.

Getting changed into my nicest shirt and vest had been her idea. She'd also dressed up considerably, too. If she'd caught my regular glimpses at her legs, she hadn't said.

"And you're sure he's not here?" I asked, almost giving in and pulling at my collar.

"Positive." Sarah didn't look up from an article on the mayor. "I called ahead and sweet-talked Miss Greta a bit, made sure Shaw's out on business. We're free and clear."

"Probably looking for some other poor scapegoat to pin something on," I said, scowling at the mere thought of the wooden-faced FBI agent. My good leg started jiggling, the nerves making my foot tap. Sarah looked at me out of the corner of her eye, but thankfully didn't threaten bodily harm. After her way of dealing with the Bishop's weasel, I couldn't help but be grateful about that. "Do you think they'll even see us? Casey said the cops were looking for me and—"

"Casey riles you up." Sarah sounded bored. "You annoy him, but he likes you, and that annoys him more. It's too bad we didn't think to grab the crosswords section of the paper before we left."

"Bored?" I asked, swiveling to look at her.

"No, but you look like you could use some distracting. And most of the other ways I might use are right out, considering we're in the middle of a police station." Sarah raised an eyebrow a quarter inch.

This time, I had to pull at my collar, to let some of the heat out. I was amazed steam wasn't rising off of my skin. "Aw, shucks, ma'am," I said in my best back-country voice, and she rolled her eyes at me, though I could see a tiny piece of a smile quirking at the corner of her lips. "Do you think—"

"Carmichael, what the hell are you doing here?"

I nearly sprang to attention at the authoritative bark that cut through whatever flirting I might have been attempting. It came not from the police captain I'd come to see, but from the tiny woman who guarded his office like an ever-vigilant lioness. Mrs. Diane Beckman had been born to be an Army general in another life, if you asked me, though she certainly didn't look it. Her hair was the bright, burnished red of a newly minted penny, her eyes were beady and glaring, and though she barely topped five feet, she had a glower that could stop a man in his tracks and make him beg for mercy.

She had that glower pinned on me now, with her hands on her hips and a suspicious look in place.

"Uh, hello, Gener—I mean, ma'am."

"And you," Mrs. Beckman turned that glower onto Sarah, and I'm no coward, but I certainly felt a bit of relief anyway. "I suppose you're back now."

Sarah merely looked amused, biting her lip. "I am."

"Couldn't keep this one out of the station? You know the cops are looking for him."

"It was my idea, ma'am."

"Haven't got a single lick of sense between the two of you. Since Sergeant Casey is out, I suppose you're here to see the Captain?"

"If he's in," I said, and politely did not add _And not too drunk_. "There's something he needs to know."

Beckman studied me like a scientist with a new specimen. "I'm guessing since you so happened to show up in the five minutes in which a certain federal agent is not in the building, it has something to do with him."

Sarah looked pointedly around at all of the cops who were very careful in trying not to look like they were listening in to the entire conversation. It, of course, only made them seem even more obvious about it. "Maybe we could talk about this a little more privately?"

"Very well. Come this way." And with her heels clicking on the linoleum, she led us back into the labyrinthine maze of cubicles that led the way to Captain Roan Montgomery's office. The 42nd Precinct was kept in one of the buildings that hadn't been destroyed by the Fire, so the amenities were old, some of the oldest in the area, and it always smelled faintly of mold. The wiring for the lighting was spotty at best (though I had offered to fix it a couple of times for Casey) so that even though the light bulbs were on, it still felt dark and grim inside.

It was, in my opinion, the perfect place for Casey to work. He tended to growl like a bear a lot, so why not let him have his cave?

Captain Montgomery's office was buried in the back, far enough from the holding cells where you couldn't hear the drunks shouting insults at each other. I'd been in once or twice. After I'd given the police valuable information that had led them to a notorious killer, Captain "Call me Roan" Montgomery had invited me back for the perfect martini, which he claimed he could only make himself. It had three olives. Out of solidarity with Sarah, who'd recently told me at the time that she hated olives, I'd only had one drink. Either way, it was pretty well known that the captain for the 42nd was a bit of a lush, and that secretly, the entire department was held together not by him or any of his men, but by the tiny, fearsome woman leading the way now.

She knocked once on the door, and I got the feeling that it was more for form's sake, before she burst into the office. Roan Montgomery didn't even bother to stand. He was a dashing, suave man who did not look, act, or seem like a cop in the slightest. His silver hair was perfectly coiffed, not even dented from the trilby hat squared away neatly on the hat stand, and he had his vest neatly buttoned over a starched white shirt. Not a single line dared muss his clothing, though given that he was flirting with his sixth decade, he had plenty of lines around his mouth and eyes.

"Oh, Charles," he said, putting his feet on the floor and standing. "Always lovely to see you—and the delightful Miss Walker, I see you're back as well. Enchanté, my dear." He bent gallantly over Sarah's hand.

Instead of giggling, however, she shot me a _Can you believe this guy?_ look. I shook my head.

"Hello, Roan," she said, taking her hand back.

I had my own hand pumped enthusiastically by Roan. "Can I get you anything?" he asked, heading for the cabinet that I knew held all of his martini ingredients.

"No, thank you, we're fine."

Mrs. Beckman cleared her throat, making Roan look over. "Perhaps," the secretary said, "Mr. Carmichael and Miss Walker dropped by because they have something important to discuss. I highly doubt this is merely a social call."

"Unfortunately not," I said, inclining my head toward her. "I'm here about the Bishop."

Roan made a _hmm_ noise. "Haven't we killed him yet?" he asked Mrs. Beckman.

"Not for lack of trying."

"Or at least arrested him?"

"Again, no, Captain."

"Would you like a chance to?" I asked, twirling my hat around my finger. "Because that's what I came here to talk about."

Roan put down his drink, suddenly turning serious. "We're listening," he said, and I cleared my throat and began to tell the cops my plan.

* * *

**Frea's A/N the Third: **I think this is just going to be the only update this week, you guys. I'm stressed out with deadlines for a writing thing and work thing and I appreciate the patience. We'll be back on Monday. In the meantime, here's a li'l sumthin'-sumthin' to tide you over:

_Sweat dripped in a steady line down my back, so I didn't bother removing my hat._

_Sarah, on the other hand, looked completely calm and confident as she walked in beside me. Before I could open my mouth—and probably get us all in trouble—she sashayed up to the barkeep. "Hi, handsome," she said. "Need to talk to your boss."_

_The barkeep eyed her. "You got an appointment?"_

_"I'm a secretary. Of course I set one up ahead of time."_

_"All right, then." It was possible the barkeep was stunned stupid by Sarah's beauty—it had certainly happened to me a time or two—for he swallowed hard and jerked his head toward the back room. "He's with company, so you might have to wait, but head on through there. He'll see ya."_

_"Thanks, big guy." Sarah winked again and grabbed my tie to pull me along, and I didn't blame the barkeep one bit for looking like he'd been smacked between the eyes with a battering ram._


	16. The Final Showdown

**mxpw's A/N the First: **Oh wow, I actually get to write my own A/N this update. We have finally reached the big chapter, the chapter where everything goes down. Took **Frea** and I a good amount of time to figure out how we wanted this to go, but when we did, I think it turned out pretty awesome. Lots of things come to a head and things explained. I hope you enjoy, and thanks for reading!

**Frea's A/N the First: **Thanks to our awesome beta readers, our lovely readers and reviewers, and most importantly the little curl my hair does so that when I put it up in a ponytail today, it looks like bits of my hair are standing straight up and kind of makes me look like I have devil horns. Also, I appreciate the patience between chapters!

* * *

**The Final Showdown****  
**

What we ended up relaying to Captain Montgomery was, at its heart, a relatively simple plan.

We would enter the Lazarus Room and make a trade with the Bishop for Morgan's release. If everything unfolded as we hoped, the Soviets and—if we were really lucky—Shaw would show up. Once everybody was there and the Bishop made his play for the device, the boys in blue from the 42nd, led by Casey, would swoop in and arrest everybody. Or so we hoped.

If all went well, Captain Montgomery and Casey would get the credit for finally bringing to justice the notorious gangster Vincent "the Bishop" Karpazzo, Morgan would go free, Carina would get her Machine back, and I would finally have an opportunity to take that vacation I desperately needed—though I knew this one was largely a pipe dream.

It was a good plan. I knew it was a good plan, but it didn't stop me from imagining every little thing that could possibly go wrong.

Morgan could already be beaten to a pulp, or worse, dead. The Soviets might invade with an army. Shaw could raid the meeting and bring more men than Casey. Hell, it could all be a setup and Jeff the boozehound bartender could really be the mastermind behind it all. That last one, I doubted. Sarah could get shot, and this time it wouldn't be just a flesh wound.

Sarah getting hurt frightened me most. I knew she could take care of herself. Hell, she could take care of herself and me at the same time, while fighting off two men simultaneously. It didn't stop me from worrying about her, and hoping that this plan we'd come up with didn't get anybody I cared about hurt.

So I paced the dirty floor of the abandoned warehouse that the 42nd had taken over as their base of operations. There were twenty cops milling around, preparing for the raid. They'd been hand-picked by Casey and the precinct was outside the Bishop's main area of influence, which hopefully meant none of them were on the bishop's payroll, but I still didn't like taking the chance. One leak and this plan could go to the dogs.

"Chuck, please relax," Sarah said. She'd taken up residence along the wall, out of the way of the cops.

I wanted to tell her that I wished I _could_ relax, but I just ended up grunting something unintelligible. I focused on my pacing, worrying about everything that could go wrong—or at least I did until Sarah suddenly stood in my path.

"Chuck," she said. I made myself look at her, which was, okay, not exactly a chore. "You're giving yourself an ulcer. Everything is going to work out."

I couldn't help it. All that kept going through my head were the potentially gruesome ends Morgan and Sarah might meet if things didn't go according to plan. "But how do you know that, Sarah?"

"Trust me," Sarah said, and I did. Even with the secrets I'd discovered about her, I really did trust her.

I opened my mouth, but Sarah cut me off.

"Chuck, be honest: when you thought I was your guardian angel, you took more risks knowing that I was out there, didn't you?"

"Erm," I said, unsure how to answer that without getting myself in trouble.

Sarah rolled her eyes. "That's what I thought. But my point is, you trusted me to look out for you, to protect you, even when you had no idea who I was. What makes you think that now that you know it was me, anything has changed? I will always protect you, Chuck."

I had no idea what to say to that, I was too overwhelmed by her words. So I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around her, bringing her in close and holding her tight.

Sarah hugged me back just as hard. "You and me, Chuck, we're in this together. No matter what happens, trust that. I've got your back."

"And I've got yours," I murmured into her hair and breathed in deeply. Just being near Sarah was enough to calm me, and give me the determination to push forward.

* * *

Most of that calm had depleted, however, by the time I set foot in the Lazarus Room thirty minutes later. By my estimation, the Bishop had had his hooks into Morgan for several hours, no matter that we'd rustled up a platoon of police officers in what was probably record time. Sweat dripped in a steady line down my back, so I didn't bother removing my hat.

Sarah, on the other hand, looked completely calm and confident as she walked in beside me. Before I could open my mouth—and probably get us all in trouble—she sashayed up to the barkeep. "Hi, handsome," she said. "Need to talk to your boss."

The barkeep eyed her. "You got an appointment?"

"I'm a secretary. Of course I set one up ahead of time."

"All right, then." It was possible the barkeep was stunned stupid by Sarah's beauty—it had certainly happened to me a time or two—for he swallowed hard and jerked his head toward the back room. "He's with company, so you might have to wait, but head on through there. He'll see ya."

"Thanks, big guy." Sarah winked again and grabbed my tie to pull me along, and I didn't blame the barkeep one bit for looking like he'd been smacked between the eyes with a battering ram.

"Smooth," I told her as we headed back into the Bishop's fabled back room.

She twitched a shoulder, but I could see tension along the line of her jaw and the way she kept her eyes forward, her hand near her gun. "Yes," she said. "Well, when you've got the face for it…"

"I can't deny that," I said.

The Bishop's back room was renown all throughout Chicago, and I was grateful I'd only been in it once. Word had it that old Nick Quinn had choked out his last Scottish oath as he'd bled all over the floorboards, that Mauser had defiantly met his end at the barrel of the Bishop's gun there. Father Fortleby had read Mr. Clyde Decker his last rites as he'd lain on a table in front of the Bishop, divested of most of his internal organs. The legends ran hard and fast where this room was considered, so it was a mite understandable that I had to take a deep breath before we stepped inside.

"Ah, Mr. Carmichael. Miss Walker. I was wondering when the two of you would get around to joining us." The Bishop stood as we came into a room that was deceptively large, especially when compared to the tiny bar we'd just left behind. The furnishings in this room, which could have held three bar rooms with space to spare, were just as dark and understated as they had been in the bar, but there weren't leather panels adorning the walls. There were, however, very dark, suspicious stains on the floor.

Two or three tables were scattered throughout the room. Thugs ringed those, eating dinner or reading the newspaper and doing their best to generally look bored. My eyes were drawn immediately, however, to the main table. Sitting right there next to the Bishop was Morgan, a gag in his mouth and panic in his eyes.

"Mmpf!" he said very clearly when Sarah and I stepped inside. "Mmpf—urgle—nenth!"

Relief hit me like a prop plane in a suicide dive. He didn't even look hurt.

"Huh," Sarah said. "Finally a way to keep him quiet."

I shot her a betrayed look. She put her hands up in submission.

"Just a joke," she whispered, and turned toward the Bishop. "We're here to make a trade, Mr. Karpazzo."

Instead of replying, though, the Bishop looked at me in clear amusement. "You allow your secretary to speak for you, Mr. Carmichael?"

I made a point of looking absently at the ceiling (where I didn't see any other mooks lurking and waiting) and at the floor. When Sarah elbowed me, I swiveled to look at the Bishop, like I hadn't heard him. "Sorry, what was that? I thought Sarah was talking to you, not me."

The Bishop's lips thinned. "I can only appreciate so much insolence, Mr. Carmichael."

I shrugged and stuffed my hands in my pockets. "Sorry, _sir_, but my mother raised me to speak to a lady when spoken to. Seemed like a good lesson to learn."

"_Chuck_," Sarah said under her breath, her warning that I'd pushed it too far—as usual. She fixed a neutral smile on her face.

"It's perfectly fine, Miss Walker. I expect that the precocious Mr. Carmichael is trying to cover up the fact that you're not quite the ordinary secretary you appear to be."

The sarcastic smile that overtook Sarah's face could have easily matched the one I saw in the mirror sometimes. "I've never been ordinary in my life, Vinnie. Are you willing to listen to our terms or not?"

"Very well." He took a seat at the table again next to Morgan, who was straining against his ties even more than before. Absently, the Bishop cuffed him, like he was a misbehaving dog. Sarah put a hand on my arm to keep me in place. "I assume you have something more to offer me than mere information? I am told this man is quite valuable to your boss."

"Partner," I said, and had every face in the room swinging toward me in surprise.

"Really?" Sarah asked under her breath.

"Walker and Carmichael, the way it should have always been."

"Perhaps we should talk about this later," Sarah said, but I could see a smile creeping through the neutral look. In an undertone, she said, "Carmichael and Walker. It's alphabetical." She raised her voice again, "As it happens, we have something _very_ valuable that we would like to trade."

"I assure you, I'm all ears."

"Thought you might be." Sarah leaned over and reached into the lining of my coat. Though I saw a few hands reach for pistols, Sarah merely pulled out the Omega Machine.

Even the Bishop rocked backward at that one. "Weren't expecting that, huh?" I asked.

"And just like that, you will hand it over for this man? Do you not understand what this device does?" The Bishop's lips twisted up, ironically. Even I couldn't deny that he looked sinister with the lights overhead gleaming on his bald pate, his deep-set eyes gazing at us through the heavy lids.

"Sure, I do," I said. "It gets me my friend back."

"Not quite," said a new voice, and I felt something cold on the back of my neck a split-second before the unmistakable sound of a pistol being cocked echoed through the room.

I closed my eyes. "Of course you would pick this moment," I said.

The pistol pushed into my neck. I got the message loud and clear. I moved farther into the room, away from the doorway, Sarah matching me step for step. "It's okay, Chuck," Sarah said.

"You could have warned me he was coming."

"I didn't want to do anything that might panic the Bishop's men." I chanced a look at Sarah's face and saw her chagrin. "Sorry."

"Shut up, both of you," Shaw said in his usual lifeless tone. I brushed my hand against Sarah's to let her know I understood.

The Bishop seemed unbothered by Shaw's presence. I figured it had to do with the army of goons willing to pump Shaw full of lead if he so much as breathed wrong. "You must be the Daniel Shaw I've heard so much about this week," he said. "I was hoping we might meet."

"How do you know who I am?" Shaw asked.

"I make it a point to familiarize myself with the law enforcement in my town." The Bishop drank from the tumbler in front of him. "Please put your weapon away, let me conclude my business here with my associates, and then we'll talk."

"No," Shaw said, and pried the piece of the Omega Machine out of Sarah's hand. "I don't think I will."

"I know you're new in town, Mr. Shaw," I said, "but maybe you should listen to the man."

"_Agent_ Shaw," Shaw said. "And I don't think I'm going to listen to any man ever again, now that I have this."

"Really?" a voice purred, and another gun cocked. Even though it sounded farther away, that wasn't much comfort when I could feel Shaw's gun barrel beginning to warm from my body heat. "How about listening to a woman, then? Hand over the Machine, Agent Shaw."

I glanced at Sarah out of the corner of my eye. She rolled her eyes back at me. Trust Carina to pick this moment, too. It was becoming a theme.

"I'm sorry," the Bishop said, "but I'm afraid I must interrupt this little charade. I assure you, I find it quite amusing, though."

"Thanks," Sarah, Carina, and I said. Shaw remained silent. By turning my head slightly, I could see him clenching his jaw, a vein bulging at his neck as he fought off his obvious annoyance at Carina having gotten the drop on him. I could partially see her behind him, attired very similarly to Sarah. She noticed me and winked, and I faced forward again.

I looked at Sarah again. That was, I decided, quite the gene pool.

"But I'm afraid," the Bishop went on, "that I just don't have time for this. Mr. Carmichael is trying to make a deal with me for the life of his friend, who I've been assured is very important to him. It would simply be ungentlemanly—and unladylike—to interrupt a business transaction made in good faith. It's unprofessional."

"The Machine isn't his to trade," Shaw said through what sounded like gritted teeth.

"And it's not yours, either," Carina said, snatching the Machine from his hand. "If we're splitting hairs."

"Do we _really_ need to be doing this at gunpoint?" I wondered.

"Yes," Shaw and Carina both said.

The Bishop turned toward the men at the table closest to him. "I'm tempted to tell you to shoot them."

"I don't think that's a good idea," said yet another new voice, and a door I hadn't noticed in the back of the room opened. Men with semiautomatics flooded in, and leading the way, dressed in a smart trench coat and a red scarf was…

"Jill!" I said, my eyes bulging.

"Hello, Chuck," Jill said as the men with her fanned out into the room. She looked distinctly unhappy.

This time, the Bishop's men didn't show restraint, and guns started appearing. Things were only seconds away from turning into a complete bloodbath, the kind of event that would make the St. Valentine's Day Massacre look like a harmless altercation.

These were the Soviets, I realized. They were the only ones who could have been tapping my phone line and knew I would be here at this time. Which made Jill one of them. Jill, a Soviet spy? I would have never seen that coming. I guess that ruled her out for killing Sarkoloff too.

"Carina, I really think you should give the Bishop the Machine," I said. "And then he can negotiate with Jill and her many, many friends."

"I concur," Sarah added, and even though we weren't close enough to touch, I could still feel the tension radiating off her in waves. She was like a coiled spring ready to snap, and I didn't think I wanted to be anywhere near her when she did.

"There will be no negotiation," Jill said. "We will be taking the piece you have, Chuck, and the missing piece as well."

Missing piece? So I had been right about that! I very carefully did not look at Sarah.

"There is a missing piece?" the Bishop asked. He turned an angry look to Morgan. Morgan tried to say something, but it was completely unintelligible, so the Bishop whirled on me, accusation in his eyes.

I raised my hands a little higher, and Shaw's gun twitched against the back of my neck. All through the room, I could see the Bishop's goons facing off against the Soviets, and I wondered if I'd given Casey and his men enough time to get in position. Boy, were we in the hot seat.

"This is the only piece I have—or had, I guess," I said. "If I knew about a second piece, I'd have brought it too."

Vincent Karpazzo crossed his arms over his chest and looked somehow both very sinister and very tired. "This is growing tiresome," he said in a soft, deadly voice. "All I want is the Machine. I am willing to forgive this farce, if everybody but Mr. Carmichael and Miss Walker leaves so that I can conclude my business. If you don't leave, you will die here."

I could tell that the Bishop meant every word he said. Now would be the perfect time for Casey to show up.

"I will count to three," the Bishop said. "One."

Nobody put down their weapons. Soviets crept toward cover behind tables and booths, their eyes on the Bishop's men, who were all doing the same. Standing out in the open as we were was beginning to make me more and more nervous. Shaw did the first smart thing he'd done since I met him: he stayed firmly behind me and Sarah. We made effective shields.

"Two."

The Bishop dragged Morgan to his feet and interposed him between himself and Jill. My stomach dropped, but there was little I could do while Shaw's pistol was still digging into my neck.

"Thr—" the Bishop started to say.

There was a loud clash behind me, like somebody had just kicked in a door, and Casey's boomed, "This is the police!"

All hell broke loose.

Apparently when you fill a room with Feds, spies, Soviets, and Chicagoan bad guys and then add cops to the mixture, shooting happens. A lot of shooting. And our little group was right in the middle of it.

The Bishop reacted quickly, grabbing hold of Morgan's collar and bodily dragging him to the nearest wall, where he used my friend as a human shield. I shouted and wanted to lunge after them, but instead, Shaw shoved me forward, no doubt because Carina had pushed him. Sarah grabbed me by the arm and somehow the four of us raced in the same direction as the Bishop, heading for a door I hadn't seen before.

"Go, go, go," Carina said.

We ran for our lives. Shaw and Carina trained their weapons on other targets and provided meager cover fire. Gunfights make strange bedfellows of ordinary folk, but I was under no illusion that Shaw was on our side. I was more focused on the Bishop, as he disappeared through the door, this one leading God only knows where. He obviously intended to hold Morgan hostage as long as possible. That only spurred me to go faster. I pushed myself, but even with all my experience in the War, seeing one of Jill's compatriots surge up, gun pointed toward us, drew me back.

Carina shot him twice in the chest. I stumbled, staring in horror at the man's shocked face as he fell over. Before I regained my balance, Shaw slammed into Sarah and me both, sending us tumbling through the door and out of the line of fire.

Sarah let out a cry. I cursed as I landed hard on my busted knee, searing pain racing all the way up my thigh and locking into my hip. I bounced twice, cursing again, and slammed my shoulder into the wall just inside the hallway.

When I pushed myself to my feet, I froze. Somehow, while I'd been getting kicked around, the others had corrected course, so that I stood there, the only one without a gun in his hand, silhouetted in the narrow hallway. Sarah, Shaw, and Carina stood in staggered formation, side-by-side, backs toward the main room full of the melee of cops, thugs, and Soviets. Their guns were pointed at the Bishop, who had his arm wrapped around Morgan's neck and his own gun pointed at my friend's temple.

Everything inside me turned to ice.

"I advise you to put the guns down," the Bishop said. "Or I'm afraid I simply must kill Mr. Carmichael's friend, and as you can see, he'll be heartbroken."

"Put the gun down, Karpazzo," Sarah said. "Nobody else has to die today."

As she said it, there was an obvious cry of a man getting shot from the room behind us. She winced.

"I don't think it works that way, Miss Walker. If there are still three guns pointed at me in ten seconds, I am going to shoot this man. Ten." The Bishop counted, slowly. Every number seemed to take an eternity, and all I could see were Morgan's eyes, wide with panic. I wanted to do something—race forward, save my friend—but I was paralyzed, absolutely rooted to the spot.

He reached four as a fresh bead of sweat rolled from my hairline and down the back of my shirt.

"Fine," Carina said, making all of us jump. Without any warning, she whipped about and shot Shaw right above the knee. When the man shouted and crashed to the ground like a falling tree, clutching his leg, Carina dealt him a swift blow to the temple with the butt of her gun. Just like that, the man who'd caused me so much grief collapsed to the floor, out like a light.

Blithely, Carina aimed her gun at the Bishop again. "You said three guns. Now there are only two."

"Wow," was all I could say to that.

Carina glanced away from the Bishop to wink at me. "You like that? I'm calling it the 'Chuck.' I heard you did it to some mooks at the hospital earlier."

"Focus," Sarah said.

I hoped I wasn't imagining that the Bishop looked a little pale as he said, "Very impressive, but…" He trailed off and I only had a split-second to puzzle at the sly smirk that overtook his face before a locomotive hit us from behind.

Again, I went flying. This time, I evened things out somewhat by landing on my bum arm instead of my bum leg, but it still hurt like the dickens. Agony flared, hot and white, up and down my whole torso. Over the sounds of the brawl from next door, I heard something that sounded like the skitter of metal against a wood floor and looked up just in time to watch the Omega Machine slide past me, too fast for me to grab it. It bumped against the Bishop's foot; he bent and scooped it up. Grabbing Morgan again, he ran.

I had bigger problems—literally. For I climbed onto my knees just in time to watch Mr. Colt scoop Sarah up and fling her. Like she had in the hospital, she plowed into me, and I thumped hard into the wall, knocking the breath from my lungs.

I wheezed. Where had he even come from?

A second later, Carina landed in a pile next to us. Mr. Colt grinned and cracked his knuckles, his teeth blindingly white against his face. "Who the hell is this?" Carina asked, wiping at a bloody lip.

Sarah shoved me behind her and was on her feet in an instant. "He's my problem. You two get the Bishop." She leapt toward Colt with a high kick to his chest.

Colt grunted as he deflected the blow. "I was hoping you'd be here," he said, his voice deeper than I'd ever heard it. "We have some unfinished business, missy."

"Yes, we do," Sarah said. She ducked under a haymaker, moved in close, and jabbed Colt twice in the stomach before dancing away. "Go, you two!"

"No way," I said, and once again climbed to my feet. I was getting really annoyed with being tossed to the ground.

"Damn it, Chuck, go! Stop the Bishop—save Morgan!" Sarah pulled out a knife and squared off against Colt. "I've got this."

Carina appeared by her side, a knife in her hand as well. "_We've_ got this," she said.

Seeing both sisters lined up against him, Colt cracked his knuckles and smirked. He straightened up his suit jacket, fastidiously, before he advanced on the women.

I didn't want to leave Sarah. More than anything I wanted to stay and help, but as I watched both sisters dodge in and out of striking distance, knives gleaming in the dull light of the room, their movements fluid and graceful, I knew I'd only get in the way. Besides, I had to trust Sarah, trust that she could look after herself and do what she said she could do.

It was still just about the hardest thing I'd ever done, turning away from her and chasing after the Bishop, even if he did have my best friend.

I moved at a hobbled pace, but at least I had a chance to pull my M1911 free. I had only ever had to fire my gun on a case a handful of times before the Bryce Larkin Express derailed into my life, but I knew how to use it. The War had seen to that. I ran hard, the pain in my leg making my heartbeat roar in my ears. The Bishop had Morgan—though why he wanted my friend, I still didn't know—and the Machine, and I had to get both back to keep Vincent Karpazzo from gaining even more power. My town simply couldn't afford it.

Things had never rested quite so solidly on my shoulders before. I can't say I much cared for it.

I ran the way I'd seen him go, which led down the hallway to a door. When I reached it, I risked distraction only long enough to give one last look over my shoulder at Sarah before I turned the knob. Gun at the ready, I pushed the door outward.

There was a sound like an explosion and flakes of brick blew out of the wall right next to my head.

"Holy mackerel!" There wasn't anywhere to go but forward, so I dove out of the way before the Bishop could get off another shot. I rolled into some kind of alleyway behind the back room, where the sounds of fighting were muffled. There wasn't much there: some trash bins, old crates, a couple of barrels that probably held rotgut, and the Bishop and my best friend. The Bishop snapped off a couple more shots, both of them going wide and kicking up splinters of brick into the air.

Criminy, the man was a worse shot than Shaw.

"Stay back, Carmichael!" the Bishop said. When I dared peek over the trash bin I'd taken refuge behind, I saw him dragging Morgan toward the mouth of the alley. "Enough of this game. If you ever want to see your friend alive, you'll give up now."

"Mister, there's one thing I don't do, even when I should, and that's give up!" I looked around desperately for anything that I could use nearby since my gun wasn't much use. Morgan would forgive me if I hit him with a stick, but I don't think that graciousness would extend to a gunshot wound.

Though we'd been friends since we'd been in shortpants, so who knows? He might have forgiven me.

"I should have given my men better orders to kill you," the Bishop said, sounding like he was talking through his teeth. I had that effect on a lot of people, I'd noticed over the years. His voice sounded like it was getting farther away. I could see Morgan struggling, his feet kicking against the pavement, but in addition to being the ruler of Chicago's underworld, the Bishop appeared inhumanly strong, hauling my friend along. "Don't follow us, Carmichael, if you value his life."

"You know I'm not gonna give up, Bishop. Just hand him over. He doesn't know anything." I took a chance and dove over the trash bin, taking cover behind the crates instead.

The Bishop continued to back away. "Then what's your genius pal doing, looking into Busgang? He's a reporter, they always know more than they tell you. You wouldn't believe the number of journalists I've squeezed dry."

An idea struck that had twin feelings of guilt and hope swirling in my gut. Did I value my friend's life enough to throw him under the bus? Surely he'd understand, wouldn't he? "Seems you're wrong, Vinnie," I said, raising my voice. I knew Morgan would rather I shoot him by accident than say what I planned to, but I didn't have much of a choice. "He's not a reporter, he's an inkboy who gets delusions of grandeur sometimes."

Morgan's face fell. It hurt my heart.

"And maybe for the first time in his life, he managed to stumble on _something_, but he has no idea what it is," I said. I looked hard at Morgan, hoping he understood.

The Bishop's look turned furiously ugly, and I barely had time to duck back behind the crate before wood splintered around me.

"You don't believe me? Look at his fingers!" I said. "Look at them, look hard. They're covered in ink, aren't they? That's not pen ink, that's ink from a press. He works in the plant on the linotype machine, not in the office writing articles."

Morgan let out a pained burbling noise that ended with "Uck!" I could see the Bishop's gaze waver, and I knew my words were getting to him, finally.

"Busgang was a fluke," I went on, not daring to look over the top of the crate again. "He doesn't know anything, not about the Omega Machine, or about Busgang working with the OSS or Bryce Larkin or any of it. He's just a bystander."

"Then I should shoot him," the Bishop said, and I heard the gun cock.

"No!" I stood up without thinking about it and had to duck hard when he took another shot at me. "No, he doesn't know anything, but _I_—I do!"

"I think you're bluffing, Carmichael."

Of course I was bluffing. I hadn't known anything about this case from the start. I hadn't known Carina was a spy until Bryce had left me the Lady in Red clue, I hadn't known Jill was a Soviet, I hadn't known Sarah was my guardian angel. What I didn't know could fill the Lake and possibly a few oceans. But the Bishop didn't know that, so I made my voice as hard as I could and said, "Are you willing to take that chance, Mr. Karpazzo? You shoot my friend, you get nothing from me."

There was a pause. I couldn't risk another look. Maybe it was the hope beating in my chest, but that pause sounded loaded with possibility. I closed my eyes and counted silently to ten, hoping and praying. My sweaty palm made it hard to grip my gun.

Finally, finally, the Bishop said, "I know what a man sounds like when he's willing to make a deal, Mr. Carmichael. What are you offering me?"

"You let my friend go, I'll tell you everything I know," I said right away.

"And if you know nothing, as I suspect?"

"Why do you think the government agent sent to retrieve the device came to me?" I asked. "And—and w-why do you think the Soviets were so interested in me, huh?"

"Because, Mr. Carmichael, you're a magnet for trouble."

The man had a point. I could even hear Morgan's muffled gurgle, like he agreed. A part of me wanted to protest my innocence, but knew now wasn't the time. No, now was the time to play the best damn hand of poker in my life.

"That may be so, Bishop, but I'm not bluffing. And I'm willing to put my money where my mouth is." I took a deep breath and spun my pistol around till it only hung from my index finger. Then I stood up, my hands up and at my sides.

I wanted to shake when I saw the Bishop's pistol pointed firmly at my chest, but the man didn't fire. I took that as a very good sign. "There's something you might not know about me, Vinnie, but during the War, I worked on decrypting German communications. So I know all about the Omega Machine and Busgang's research." I paused, mostly for dramatic effect—I didn't want the Bishop to think I was giving up information too easily. "The Omega Machine is the essential component in decrypting one-time pads using something called a computer. Maybe you've heard of it?"

About the only part of what I'd just said that was true was that I'd worked on decrypting German communications. Hopefully, the Bishop didn't realize that until later.

The Bishop just looked at me blankly. I chose to take that as a good sign—well, that and he hadn't shot me yet. So I shrugged. "Trust me, they're gonna be big one day. And that's all I'm sayin' until you let Morgan go."

I wanted to fidget as the Bishop's cold, calculating eyes settled on me, but I stayed still. I breathed evenly. I willed the Bishop to believe me.

And then he let Morgan go. "Get out of here," he said, and gave Morgan a hard push toward me.

I motioned with my left hand for Morgan to come toward me. His eyes were still clouded with the pain of my perceived betrayal, but at least he moved. I waited until he was even with me before I said in a low voice, "I'm sorry, Morgan. I didn't mean it. But you gotta go, now. Find Sarah, okay? Tell her what's going on."

I looked away from my friend—the Bishop was too much a predator to take your eyes off him for long—and hoped Morgan would listen.

To my relief, he did, and his footfalls eventually faded into nothingness. That just left the Bishop and me. Alone. In an alley.

God, I was an idiot. I mean, I was incredibly pleased and grateful that my friend was safe, don't get me wrong, but now the Bishop was going to expect me to deliver on something I couldn't do. Nothing about this night had gone according to plan.

"Alright, Mr. Carmichael, I kept up my end of the bargain," he said. "Now talk. And I suggest you talk _quickly_."

I needed a distraction, something I could use to buy me enough time to flip my gun around and shoot the Bishop. Otherwise I was dead meat. I wracked my brain for anything I could use, anything from the case that had plagued me for days. I caught a tendril that was more a long shot than anything and blurted out, "It was you who killed the Soviet spy, wasn't it?"

Annoyance filtered across the Bishop's face, loud and clear. He gestured with the gun. "Of course that was me," he said. "He was getting too close to you and learning too much. He needed to be removed. And I know you're stalling, Mr. Carmichael. Tell me what I want to know."

"I can't."

It was said the Bishop had a legendary temper, but that he almost never let it out. When he did, people died. I watched anger flush the Bishop's face into a horrible visage, and I knew I was about to join those people. I shut my eyes and waited for the inevitable.

A shot did ring out, but I felt nothing but the cool air kissing my skin.

I opened my eyes and saw the Bishop lying on the ground, holding his shoulder and groaning in pain. I didn't understand what had happened, but I wasn't about to let such an opportunity go to waste. I dashed forward and scooped up the man's gun, looking around and holding it up as I searched his body for the piece of the Omega Machine, pulling it out of one of his pockets.

A dark figure stepped out from behind a pile of crates, a still smoking gun in her hand.

I gaped in total surprise. "_Jill_?"

"Are you okay, Chuck?"

"Thank you, Jill," I said, trying not to splutter too much from shock. Why had she saved me? She was one of the Soviets, she was on the other side. "Where did you come from?"

Jill gave me a small smile. She really seemed so much nicer when she smiled. "I saw the four of you rush into that room and I knew one of you had to have the piece of the Machine. As soon as I had a chance, I chased after you. Good thing I did."

"Yeah, good thing." Now that she had mentioned the part of the Machine, I grew wary. Had Jill simply shot the Bishop to make her escape with the part easier? Was she going to shoot me now? I slowly moved my gun until it was pointing in her direction.

"Relax, I'm not going to shoot you."

"You're not?"

Jill laughed, but I could tell there wasn't much humor in it. She looked like a woman at the end of her rope, like hope wasn't a thing that existed in her world. "No, I would never do that. We've got too much history."

We did have a lot of history. She'd been my girl before the War, my first case afterward, and even though she'd kept a secret from me, a secret so big it made Sarah's pale in comparison, I couldn't erase that history, and I apparently couldn't just let it go. I wanted to tell her it was okay, but she'd killed a man, apparently in cold blood. But who was I to judge? I'd seen what people driven to the brink could do. I'd lived through an entire war of it.

I think that's what inspired my next move, a move I wasn't sure I'd live long enough to regret. "You're right, we do," I said. "But you're wrong, too. You told me, you can't outrun your past. I think you can. You don't owe these men anything—which is why I'm gonna let you go, Jill."

Now it was Jill's turn to look at me in surprise. "What?"

"Go, and don't ever come back. Leave Chicago forever and," I paused and looked behind her, back at the Lazarus Room, "as far as I'm concerned, Jill Roberts died in the Lazarus Room. I'll make sure Casey understands."

Jill took a small step backward, confusion and surprise written all over her face. The gun in her hand wavered. "I don't know what to say."

"Don't say anything. Just go. Think of it as a second chance. Another chance to be the kind of person you wanted to be before I found you all those years ago."

For a second, she looked over her shoulder, back at the Lazarus Room and then back at me. On the ground, the Bishop groaned, and I desperately wanted to know what Jill thought of all of it. Maybe she was weighing her options. I hoped there was still enough of the Jill I remembered back from when we'd gone steady inside, enough of her strength of character to make the right call.

And after one of the longest moments of my life, she smiled at me, a real smile, the kind of smile I hadn't seen in a long time. Just like that, she walked away, down the alley and out of my life. I prayed for her sake—and mine—that I never saw her again.

A groan from the Bishop brought my attention back to him. I holstered my M1911 and carefully stepped toward him again, as nothing was more dangerous than a wounded animal, but he was clearly too preoccupied to put up much resistance. I hauled him to his feet.

"Sorry about all this, Vinnie," I said, "but if you had just left me alone, you wouldn't be bleeding all over your fancy clothes right now."

The Bishop glared at me and I'm not ashamed to admit it made me take a step back. "You're a dead man, Carmichael. What are your grand plans now? To turn me in? You incompetent fop. It won't stop me. It won't even slow me down. I own this city—it's _mine_. Certainly, they'll attempt to jail me, but I'll be out within a day, and when I do, I will find everybody you've ever loved and I will enjoy every flicker, every grimace of pain on your face as I ever so slowly and painfully kill them in front of you while you watch, helpless and unable to do anything."

I gulped hard, but didn't back down. Images that I would have nightmares about for days floated to the front of my mind: Ellie, Sarah, even Casey in pain, begging for their lives while the Bishop smiled.

The Bishop raised a single, haughty eyebrow. "You let me go now and maybe I'll kill only you," he said.

I shoved the other man and almost went for my gun. But I knew I couldn't do that. That wasn't who I was, it wasn't what I believed in, and it wasn't the kind of man I wanted to be. Still, it was tempting.

"Shut up," I said.

"Final offer, Carmichael. Your last chance, because as soon as a copper puts those bracelets on me, your fate is sealed."

"No it's not," a gruff voice said.

I nearly jumped out of my shoes and spun around in the air all at the same time. The relief I felt at seeing Casey's presence could not adequately be described. "Casey! You nearly scared me to death."

Casey didn't respond, he was too busy staring a hole in the Bishop. "I'll take it from here, Carmichael. I think that secretary of yours got hurt. You should go check on her. I'll bring Karpazzo in."

Sarah had been hurt? I dropped the Bishop like a hot potato, practically shoving him into Casey's arms. "Where is she, Case? Is it bad?"

"She was asking for you. She's inside." Casey didn't look at me, still, but I didn't care. Those horrifying images of Sarah being hurt in front of the Bishop now changed to Sarah crying out in pain, shot or hurt by Colt. I had to get to her, right away. "You'd better get in there."

"Guess that's a no on your deal," I said to the Bishop, and ran for the door. I heard him shout at me to come back, but I didn't care, not when Sarah had been injured. My heart was in my throat and my hands weren't steady: I had to scramble for the doorknob a couple of times. When I finally got it to work, I yanked it open with more force than was probably necessary. I was so focused on getting to Sarah that the single crack of a gunshot from the alley behind me barely even registered as I ran inside.

* * *

**Frea's A/N the Second**: FINAL CHAPTER COMING THURSDAY. FEAST YOUR EYE-TONGUES ON THIS DELICIOUS BIT OF FIC-POP:

_"That doesn't matter," I said. "It wasn't right."_

_"It must be nice to cling to those ideals of yours, Carmichael. The rest of us have to live in the real world."_

_"I can't accept that," I said._


	17. The Letter

**mxpw's A/N the Final: **And that's a wrap, folks! Thank you for joining **Frea** and I on this crazy, noir journey. It was a lot of fun working with **Frea** on this story. We had many late nights, sacrificed much to the Muses, and I believe she actually ate the heart of one of her enemies during the process, but it was worth it in the end. I'm pretty darn pleased with how this story turned out. And I hope you are too! Thank you to **Steampunk Chuckster** and **quistie64** for all their help with the story. Thank you to **Frea** for being the real genius behind the story. Thank you to everybody here for reading. I hope to see you guys around here again sometime.

**Frea's A/N the Final: **We made it to the end! Yes! I've said thank you to everybody before and I want to echo all of **mxpw**'s sentiments from his message, too. Also, that heart was delicious, and it got me dragons or something. Or at least, that's what **mxpw** said it would do, but I HAVE YET TO SEE A SINGLE DRAGON, MAXIMUS—and okay, maybe that's besides the point. On the serious, though, I want to thank my wonderful cowriter, **mxpw**. He says I'm the real genius behind this story, but I disagree. Neither of us could have written this alone. And it was such a fun, educational experience. I got to write something with my best friend. How many people can say that? I'm truly blessed. And on that note, I'm going to present you the final chapter of our wonderful little noir tale. Check my blog in a couple of days for the ebook download! Stay sexy, folks!

* * *

**The Letter**

I careened through the doorway, slamming a shoulder into a wall and bouncing off it in my haste to reach Sarah. When I rounded the corner into the hallway where I'd left Sarah, Carina, and Mr. Colt, it was just in time to see Sarah crack Mr. Colt over the head with a wooden chair. Where she'd gotten the chair didn't seem important when Colt went down like a Redwood. The floor shook beneath my feet; I grabbed the wall to stay upright, and it was impossible to rip my eyes away from Sarah.

I had always known that Sarah was stunning. I mean, it was one of the biggest reasons why I had thought I'd never have a chance with her. But it wasn't until I burst into the room, and saw her standing upright and victorious over the unconscious form of Mr. Colt, that I realized how truly out of my league she was. She stood in profile, a splintered chair leg clutched in her hand. She was breathing heavily, like she had run a marathon. Her blouse was torn and dirty in several places, her hair a wild mess. And yet, she had never looked more beautiful to me.

"Sarah!" I half-ran, half-slid the remaining distance. She put out a hand instinctively, her eyes wary.

I ignored all of that. "Are you okay? Oh, goodness, are you okay? Casey said you were hurt, and I couldn't think, I just had to get to you—"

She dropped the remains of the chair onto the ground and threw her arms around me. I clung back, relief like a physical taste at the back of my throat. She was upright and she didn't _seem_ injured, save for the black eye starting to form. "I'm fine. I'm fine," she said, her voice a little muffled by my shoulder. "He didn't get me that hard. What about you? Are _you_ okay? I was worried!"

"Yes, I'm okay. The Bishop's a lousy shot." I held Sarah at arm's length, desperate to make sure she wasn't lying and secretly hurt. Sarah seemed to be doing the same, so that we studied each other frantically. Neither of us had been shot. We'd survived facing the Bishop. I couldn't believe it.

The sound of a throat being cleared made me blink and look away from Sarah. Carina, panting and looking just as sweaty as Sarah, gave us both a sardonic look as she bent to scoop up Mr. Colt's discarded bowler hat. She dusted it off. "I'm okay, too," she said. "In case you were curious, and I know you were."

Sheepishness rose. I hadn't even seen her in my determination to get to Sarah. I surprised all three of us by hugging her, too. "I'm glad you're okay," I said. "Thank you for helping Sarah."

She stiffened and took a wary step back away from me. "Who says she wasn't helping _me_?"

"Carina," Sarah said, sounding amused. Carina smirked at that and flipped Mr. Colt's bowler hat onto her head, tilting it jauntily.

"You two are nauseating," was all she said, but I was pretty confident she was pleased at my gesture. Of course, since it was Carina Miller and I suspected sentimentality just wasn't something that went hand in hand with her, that didn't last too long. She raised an eyebrow at me. "So, you're unhurt and that's great, but do you have the part?"

"Please," I said, and fished the Omega Machine out of my pocket. "It's me."

Carina snatched it out of my hand without so much as a please or a thank you. And leaving Sarah and I gaping at her, she turned smartly on her heel and marched away, back toward the back room where the majority of the fighting had happened.

We stood in silence for a second. "Are you _sure_ she's your sister?" I asked Sarah.

"Half-sister. And yes." Sarah laughed a little and looked around. "Did you get Morgan? Where is he?"

"Morgan!" I couldn't believe I'd actually forgotten my best friend, even in the panic that Sarah had been hurt. I spun around, searching in vain. "Where is he? Have you seen him? He should be here—I told him to find you."

Sarah nudged the prone Mr. Colt with a toe. He didn't even stir. "He might have run by? I was a little busy, I must confess."

"Oh, no," I said, and started to shove doors in the hallway open, looking for my pal. This was all I needed. Sarah was okay, Jill'd run off, Casey had survived the gunfight, but if something happened to Morgan, I didn't think I could handle it. My stomach dropped to my knees as I frantically looked about, trying to find him.

"Chuck?" Sarah had moved to the doorway to the back room. "Something you need to see here."

"Oh, no, he didn't get shot, did he? He's always getting into trouble." I hurried up to join her and had to rock back on my heels in surprise.

"No," Sarah said dryly. "I would say he's probably fine."

She wasn't lying. While I had been off dealing with the Bishop and Sarah had been facing her own nemesis, the cops of the 42nd had handled their own in the gun battle in the back room. Soviets and the Bishop's thugs alike were being slapped into handcuffs while Captain Montgomery looked on, arms folded over his chest in satisfaction. And there in the middle of it all was my best friend, free of his bonds and scribbling hurriedly in his little reporter's notebook as he asked rapid-fire questions at cops and criminals alike.

"Looks like he's doing okay," Sarah said.

I watched Morgan, who seemed in his element as he ducked in and out to talk to different people, writing the whole time. Finally, I thought, his big break. "Yeah," was all I could say to that.

"Chuck," Sarah said, putting her hand on my arm. "Where's the Bishop? Did he get away?"

In my rush to get to Sarah, I had completely forgotten everything about the Bishop. "What? No, he didn't get away. Casey showed up. I left them back in the alley—"

Casey chose that moment to emerge from the door behind us. I drew up short. Why was he alone? Where was the Bishop? Had Casey handed Karpazzo over to another one of his men? That didn't make sense. There hadn't been anybody else in the alley when I'd left, and all of the surviving cops looked like they were busy in the room in front of me.

It hit me like a sock to the gut why Casey was alone. I recalled the loud noise I'd heard as I had run inside. I had brushed it off, assuming it was from the room with all the fighting, but looking at the stony set to Casey's face now, I knew better. Horror flooded me and I stared at Casey.

"You didn't," I said. "Casey, please tell me—"

To his credit, Casey looked me right in the eyes. I couldn't read his face. "I did what I had to do," he said.

Bile rose to my throat. "He wasn't armed. You shot—"

"He was right," Casey said, interrupting me. "Everything he said in that alley was the damned truth, Carmichael. With his money and connections, he'd never see the inside of a jail cell. You think he would have let you live? What about your secretary here, huh?"

"Partner," Sarah said, looking from him to me.

I wanted to sit down. My knees had begun to shake too uncontrollably to keep me upright, and I felt like being sick right there on the floor in front of Casey and Sarah. Casey had killed an unarmed, defenseless man, a man I had helped capture and hand over. I was complicit in a murder. Certainly, nobody would miss Vincent Karpazzo, and he'd caused the city so much grief during his reign of terror, but that didn't make it right.

"That doesn't matter," I said. "It wasn't _right_."

"It must be nice to cling to those ideals of yours, Carmichael. The rest of us have to live in the real world."

"I can't accept that," I said. "I won't accept that. Murder is—it's wrong, Casey."

"I did what had to be done." Casey took a deep breath and would have brushed past me, I think, but I stepped right into his path with a strength I didn't know I had. We went a long way back, ever since he saved my rear from being beaten to a pulp, but now I felt nothing but sick. He gave me a long, almost sad look. "You're a Boy Scout, Carmichael. That's why I've always liked you. But I'm not like that, and if the city's going to see any justice, I can't be like that."

"Casey," I said, and trailed off. Was I really a Boy Scout? No, I couldn't have been. I'd let Jill run when I knew full on that she'd killed a man. How could I condemn Casey for essentially doing the same thing? And hadn't I wanted to shoot the Bishop myself when he had started going on about hurting everybody I loved? I told myself I didn't care for outlaw justice day in and day out, but a good, honest Boy Scout of a man wouldn't have let Jill run free. So as much as it disgusted me, I bit my lip, hard. "That may be so, Casey. But what you did was still wrong."

Casey's frown deepened. "Maybe, but it was necessary, and I'm not talking about it anymore." He pushed past me and stalked away.

I watched him go and talk to one of his men, and turmoil swirled through my chest. Suddenly, I felt nothing but exhaustion. Carina had her part of the Machine, two officers were carting off the unconscious Agent Shaw, another officer had put Mr. Colt in handcuffs, Sarah was safe, Morgan was finally getting to do the reporting work he'd dreamed about, Casey had killed the Bishop in cold blood, Jill was on the run, and me? I needed a vacation.

"Come on, let's go home," Sarah said, and I let her lead me away.

* * *

"'An anonymous source claims that the police have no suspects in the mysterious death of Mr. Karpazzo, who was discovered after the raid in the alley behind his own club. Chicago police have yet to issue an official statement, but this writer wonders what repercussions might be had from the rather infamous crime king's death,'" Sarah read aloud, flicking the newspaper a little as she did so. She was sitting on the only clean surface in my office—the desk—her nose buried in today's edition of _The Chicago Tribune_. The front of the paper held two important things: a headline that said "POLICE RAID LOCAL WAREHOUSE AND UNCOVER SOVIET ACTIVITY" and even better, my best friend's byline.

I'd already read the article, but it was soothing listening to Sarah's voice as I cleaned, so I let her read on.

She paused, though. "Huh," she said. "For somebody who's trying not to mention us by name, Morgan seems awfully fixated on how pretty both of us are."

"It's just solid logic. You can't deny I'm a handsome devil," I said. I gathered up a stack of files and was tempted to shove them straight into the garbage bin, but Sarah would only scold me.

"No, I can't deny that." Sarah folded one side of the newspaper down to wink at me, and went back to reading.

A solid night of sleep had helped put things in perspective, but the past few days felt like a blur nonetheless. Though we'd tried to sneak out as unobtrusively as possible the night before, the police had detained us for questioning. I think they suspected we had been the ones to shoot Agent Shaw, though we had been completely honest when we asserted that we were innocent. They'd let us go, but it had been almost midnight, and the both of us had been too tired to do much but stumble to my apartment. I had let Sarah take the bed and instead fell, fully dressed, onto my sofa. I had stayed there for a full twelve hours, and it had felt like glory.

Now, a full meal in my stomach and rested for the first time in days, there was nothing to do but pick up the remaining pieces. Unfortunately this happened to be literal, as my office looked like a tornado had torn through it.

Sarah closed the paper with a satisfied look. "I think he embellished a little unnecessarily a few times, but this is more or less on the money. It's a good piece. He should be proud."

"Oh, he's definitely that. In fact, his head's going to be swollen like a hot air balloon for weeks. Strap a basket to him and we can give tours of the Windy City," I said, sorting papers back into their files. I eyed Sarah. "Say, you mind pitching in here, maybe? Given that half of this detective firm is now yours, partner, I find it mighty fair."

Sarah flicked a piece of lint off of her skirt. "It's not official yet. I'll take my vacation while I can."

"Ha, ha," I said, though I had to smile at the look on her face. It had been nearly twenty-four hours since I'd discovered that Sarah was really my guardian angel and that she loved me, and I still couldn't quite wrap my head around it. To have something so perfect in my life seemed beyond surreal: it seemed impossible, but there she was, grinning mischievously from my desk.

I almost wanted to pinch myself.

"Oh, Ellie rang while you were out getting us lunch," Sarah said, making me look up from the cleaning. "They've cleaned up things at the Lady."

"How mad is she at me?" I asked.

Sarah grimaced. "There might have been some threats? She's willing to forgive you if you're free for dinner on Tuesday. She wants to check out that new club near the Broken Monkey, the one with the absurd name, oh, what was it called?"

"The Orange Orange?"

"That was the one, yes. I told her you were free. I think she's bringing that new doctor friend of hers—or I should probably say beau. Oh, don't make that face. You liked him just fine yesterday."

I wrinkled my nose at her. I still didn't know how I felt about Dr. Devon Woodcomb, but I supposed I could give him a shot, given that Ellie had always displayed far better judgement that I had. Though the thought of meeting them for dinner had me wincing. I'd been by the Orange Orange and the prices had been mighty steep. "I hope I get a new case by then," I said, thinking of the growing list of people to whom I owed quite a bit of money.

"Perhaps you could put an ad in the paper," Sarah said, turning her wrist to get a look at the other side of the half-folded paper in her hand.

I frowned at a receipt and wondered why I had written "Red Dog" on it. This was why I had always trusted Sarah to keep track of everything. "A wonderful idea, but with what money? I happen to be flat broke at the moment, Miss Walker."

"Oh, I've got money," Sarah said.

I looked up, receipt forgotten. "You do? I must say, I'm mighty surprised, since I'm pretty sure your last employer didn't pay you enough for your skills."

"I did the work for fun, rather than pay." Sarah smiled at me, and it was that partially exasperated, mostly amused look I remembered well from years of working together. "No, I have quite a bit of money because when I told you my real name was Sarah Wechsler, I may have forgotten to mention that Hamish and Marguerite Wechsler are my grandparents."

I dropped the file. "Hamish and Margu—your grandparents own H.M. Wechsler's?"

"Yes," Sarah said.

Suddenly, I wanted to sit down, but the chair was on the other side of the room, so I stuck with bracing a hand against the wall. H.M. Wechsler's took up some very prime real estate down on Michigan Avenue. Their main competitors were Sears and Roebuck, so they weren't just a tiny Chicago boutique anymore.

"Is that a problem?" Sarah asked.

"I...I bought this tie at Wechsler's," I said, looking down at my outfit. I was pretty sure I'd brought my shoes there, too. And the entire time, they'd been Sarah's people.

"Oh, you should have told me. I would have gotten you a discount."

"So when you say you've got money," I said, "you mean…"

"That I'm rich, yes." Sarah set the paper down and recrossed her legs, primly, resting her elbows atop her knees. She put her chin on her knuckles and gazed at me. "I was actually on my way to pay a visit to my grandmother when you ran across me the other day, come to think of it. She had a broken lamp that she wanted me to pick up for the shop. Of course, I had to cut our tea short because it seems like you had gotten yourself in some trouble."

As much as that explained the mystery of the lamp, I couldn't stop the exasperation from rising to the surface. "So, let me get this straight: you're Black Jack Burton's daughter, your grandparents own Wechsler's, you've been following me around in disguise and saving my bacon, and you weren't a nurse in the War."

"Oh dear." Sarah sat up straight, a concerned line forming between her eyebrows. She nibbled her bottom lip. "I do seem to have lied to you quite a bit. I hadn't realized it was that much."

I decided that maybe I did want to sit down, so I moved to my desk chair. I ran my hand down my face. "Yes," I said. "It's a lot."

"I _am_ sorry," Sarah said, turning so that she faced me. "I didn't _want_ to lie all the time, but some of the truths are easier to deal with for me if people don't know. My father hurt a lot of people in this town, so being his daughter isn't something I'm always proud of."

"Are there any other things that I should know?" I asked instead. "Got an Uncle Moneybags? Cousins that work for Barnum and Bailey? Are your eyes blue or are they green?"

"Green? Why would you—oh, that's right. The contacts." Sarah frowned a little. "We were issued those during the War, when we ran missions, so if we were caught, our true eye color wouldn't be on record anywhere. So when I became your…" She trailed off, her frown deepening.

"Angel?" I suggested.

If anything, Sarah's frown turned into an outright scowl. "Protector," she said.

"You don't like the term angel?" This, like pretty much everything I'd discovered about my ex-secretary in the past few days, was news to me.

Sarah shook her head, violently. "Angel is _her_," she said.

"But _you_ are…"

"I know that." It was Sarah's turn to run a hand down her face. "Do you know why I left?"

I rubbed my forehead in frustration. "You left so many clues, so of course I did," I said, the sarcasm dripping from my voice before I could stop it. "No! I've been tearing my hair out, trying to figure it out. I'm guessing it wasn't a sick mother like you told Ellie?"

She at least had the conscience to wince. "No, my mother is—that's a story better not told. I left because you asked me where the invoice for the Fleming case was, and when I gave it to you, you said 'Thanks, Angel,' and I realized that I was just tired of the competition."

"Your competition with yourself," I said, since it still made my head ache a little, even though I was certainly not questioning my incredible luck.

"Yes, and it was a fine mess, but I was tired of the secrets and double life, so I left. And that wasn't fair to you, so I'm sorry for that."

The look on her face made me instinctively reach forward so that I could put my hand on hers. "It's going to take me awhile to get with the program about all of this, but I promise to try. And maybe I needed the kick to the rump."

"This is a fine mess." Sarah sighed. "Anyway, back to the point of the story, when I became your protector, it seemed natural to continue forward with using the contact lenses. They were mostly so others who I might have fought wouldn't recognize me either, but they seem to have worked on you very well, so I am sorry about that. We were taught to do anything we could to disguise ourselves, and I am afraid some things became habit. I hope you'll be patient with me."

"If you can forgive me for being an oblivious idiot, I'm sure I can be the most patient man in the world," I said, finally lifting my head.

Sarah beamed at me and leaned across the desk to kiss me. "For that," she said, leaning back, "I'll help you with the rest of this mess. Provided you don't call me 'Angel' again."

"Deal," I said, and she looped her arms around my neck. It took us quite a while to get to cleaning up the mess, as there were much pleasanter things to do in the meantime. Reluctantly, Sarah eventually climbed off the desk and headed for the office door. "Too bad we can't just lock that," I said without entirely thinking about it. I picked up the ever-reliable Cubbies ball and began to toss it from hand to hand.

She shot me an arch look over her shoulder. "_That_ will not be happening until you make an honest woman out of me."

The look on her face made me grin. "Is that your way of asking me to go steady?"

"Steady?" Sarah straightened her shirt. "Mr. Carmichael, we are long past the idea of 'going steady.' That was my way of saying we will be going to the courthouse tomorrow."

"The courthouse?" I asked, my brow furrowed. "What business would we have at the—"

It suddenly occurred to me why most people—the good folk who didn't spend their lives tangling with the law or breaking said laws, at any rate—would have reason to visit the courthouse. Needless to say, I dropped the ball and just stared.

It let out a metallic _clunk_ as it hit the floor and to my surprise, broke open like an egg. I looked down and blinked to see my favorite baseball on the ground next to a shiny contraption about the length of my pinky finger and a rolled up piece of paper.

"Uh," I said.

"Well?" Sarah had her eyes on my face and not on the ball. "What do you have to say to that?"

"Were you using the baseball for storage?" I asked.

"Chuck, I—oh, _Gott im Himmel_, what is that?" Sarah stepped closer and together we crouched over the shattered remains of my beloved baseball. "Where did this come from?"

"I'm more concerned about how long it's been in there." Wonderingly, I picked up the contraption. Upon closer inspection, I could see tiny wires running throughout it. It was thin, a flattened piece of metal, and I couldn't see any transistor tubes or anything, though I did notice some funny etchings on one of the sides. Gold filament ran lengthwise down the entire piece. "I've never seen anything like this before. I don't think it was in the ball when we caught it." Somebody, after all, had to state the obvious, and given how oblivious I'd been over Sarah's dual roles in my life, it might as well have been me.

Sarah picked up the rolled up piece of paper and carefully unfolded it. After a second, she went still. "This is for you, I think," she said, holding the paper out to me. "It's a letter."

"That's actually helpful. Does it say what the device is?"

"I think you'd better read it." She nudged the letter at me. I took it, puzzled, and handed her the device. The handwriting on the page wasn't familiar to me, so I took the letter over to my desk chair and sat down. A peek at the bottom of the letter told me it was from Bryce Larkin.

"Sarah, that's the missing piece from the Omega Machine," I said. "This is from Bryce. He must have hid it in the baseball."

"I think you're right," she said, turning the piece over in her hand.

I looked at the letter again, and felt a solemn wave wash over me. I was, I realized, about to read the words of a dead man.

_Dear Mr. Carmichael,_

_I know you probably don't remember me, but that's fine. You saved my life in the War, when our B-17 went down. I wasn't even supposed to be on that plane. In fact, there's no record of me fighting in the War, courtesy of Wild Bill, so I'm very much afraid that I have deprived you of a well-deserved medal. You pulled me out of that plane when you could have saved yourself, and for that, I'll be forever grateful. I tried to find you afterwards to thank you in person, but they had already transferred you on to another hospital, and our paths never managed to cross. _

"Holy mackerel." I had to set the letter down. "I _knew_ I recognized him."

Sarah's head shot up. "You knew Bryce Larkin?"

"Not personally. I…" My leg twinged with the old wound and I instinctively put a hand on it. We'd had to crash land not too far from enemy lines. The pilot and copilot had died, and I would always know when rain was coming, but I thought that was the only thing to come from that crash. The minutes after the crash were nothing but a blur of pain and confusion for me. It was possible Bryce had mistaken me for somebody else, but something in my gut told me the letter was the sterling truth. "I pulled him out when my plane went down, according to him. I don't remember."

The lines around Sarah's mouth whitened. Wordlessly, she put her hand over mine. I turned my palm upward so that I could lace my fingers through hers, and turned my focus back to the letter.

_I'm afraid I must ask for your help again. A man in the employ of the agency I work for was killed because of his research into a device that—well, I don't want to put down in writing what it does. If it falls into the wrong hands, thousands of lives could be at stake, so I've split the device into two pieces, one for me to keep safe, and one for you. Hopefully you'll never have to see this letter because I'll get a chance to return for the missing part, but in the event you do, please deliver this safely to a Mr. L. Graham at 409 Lancashire Street in Madison. I've left your reward for your service with him._

"Reward?" I asked, blinking and reading that sentence twice to make sure I hadn't read that wrong. "He wants us to take the part to Madison. A man's waiting to receive it, and he says there's a reward."

"How much?" Sarah asked, looking down at the piece in her free hand.

"It doesn't—oh, here we go. 'I know your normal fee isn't nearly this high,'" I read aloud, "'but I think we can agree that ten thousand dollars is'—urp!"

"Are you okay?" Sarah's eyes widened.

Again, I had to read it twice to make sure I hadn't hallucinated it, but there it was in Bryce Larkin's neat, looping handwriting. Ten thousand dollars. My heart thumped hard against my chest twice, and I thought of Mr. Colt and Mr. Delgado sitting across from me in this very office, offering me that much to find Bryce Larkin. I'd thought about never earning that much money in my life, and here it was again, printed in black and white by a man who was now dead.

I had to swallow several times. "I'm okay," I said. "Sarah, he's giving us ten thousand dollars."

Sarah made a noise in the back of her throat. "Sounds about right for our pain and trouble," she said. "What's the rest of the letter say?"

I had to clear the watering in my eyes before I could go on. "'I think we can agree that ten thousand dollars is enough for a job well done. Mr. Graham will know what to do. Thank you again, for saving my life and for helping me with this. Your country appreciates your service, Chuck. Sincerely, Bryce Larkin.'"

There was a post-script, of course, which I read aloud:

_PS - Sorry about having to trash your office. I needed to fool some people into thinking the piece wasn't here._

_PPS - If you could do me yet another favor, would you mind telling Carina Miller that she owes me ten dollars? It only took me three hours to discover she was in Chicago, not the anticipated twelve. Much obliged._

"He sounds just like Carina's type," Sarah said, sitting on the desk once more.

"I must say, I'm sad I never met him, officially," I said. "I think I would'a liked him. If they let him have a funeral, I think I'd like to go to it."

"I'll get in touch with Carina," Sarah said. "But first, we need to go to Madison."

"You think so?" I asked, doubt rising. What if Bryce's letter had been a plant? What if this mysterious Mr. Graham wasn't who Bryce thought he was? After all, Bryce had let Jill close enough to stab him in the back. "Maybe we should contact Carina instead."

"I never thought I'd see the day you suggest my half-sister as a viable option," Sarah said, but she stood up and brushed off her skirts. "But we're going to Madison. Carina won't give us ten thousand dollars and it sounds like this Mr. Graham will."

"I thought you were rich," I said, squinting at her as she pulled me to my feet. When she handed me my hat, I absently put it on, straightening the brim.

"I am, but ten thousand dollars will still pay for a _really_ good honeymoon, and I don't intend to miss out on that."

My brain caught on one word. "H-honeymoon?" I asked, and suddenly, my tongue felt thick and slow and stupid. "You mean, like the thing people do when they get married? With sitting on beaches and sipping cocktails?"

"Yes, that one. Unless...you don't want to get married?"

Not want to get married? To Sarah? There could be only one answer to that. Without a word, I calmly pulled off my hat and tossed it toward the rack (it landed neatly on the peg, which was more of an accident than anything else). And then I stepped forward and dipped Sarah like I'd seen the movie stars do, and kissed her.

"Answer your question?" I asked.

She smirked and grabbed my lapels to bring my face down to hers once again. "It'll do," she said.

So in the end, it took a mysterious cipher, a couple of spies, a Chicago crime lord, a crooked cop, a cub reporter, some Soviets, and a secret message hidden inside of a foul ball, but I won over my girl Sarah. Or, I should say, _she_ finally won _me_ over.

THE END.


End file.
